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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25561525">Gentle Woman</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretGeneration/pseuds/SecretGeneration'>SecretGeneration</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Glee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 12:20:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>31,080</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25561525</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretGeneration/pseuds/SecretGeneration</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Santana Lopez confronts the woman she catches in bed with her boyfriend, chaos ensues... and maybe a little love too.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Brittany S. Pierce/Noah Puckerman, Rachel Berry/Finn Hudson, Santana Lopez/Brittany S. Pierce, Santana Lopez/Noah Puckerman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>79</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I posted this fic years back. In light of Naya's passing, I've been seeing lots of Brittana content on social media, and the old ship sucked me back in.</p><p>So I've given this a scrub and will continue it. The original was way too wordy in parts, and I didn't like where the commas were in terms of fluidity and flow. This isn't my best stuff (I'd have to re-write it from scratch for it to rival that) But hopefully you enjoy this.</p><p>RIP Naya. Thanks for everything, you beautiful soul.</p>
<hr/><p>Two passing strangers in Times Square, New York.</p><p>One glances down, reaches into her coat pocket. </p><p>The other smiles fondly to his left, waves at an old friend across the street.</p><p>Their shoulders collide.</p><p>Her dark eyes snap up with the promise of violence, and he quickly throws his hands up, palms facing away. </p><p>“Shoot. Sorry. I guess I…” His stare zips across the street, falling to his old friend's back. “Wasn’t lookin’ where I was goin’.”</p><p>She's the kind of person who bumps you back if you bump her, and then she's going to crack you in the throat, <em>still</em> pissed about the infraction.</p><p>But not today.</p><p>“Just watch it next time!” she growls.</p><p>The man smiles tight, repurposing his grip around his briefcase handle as he takes off.</p><p>She stays where she is, unearths her phone from her pocket and thumbs out a text.</p><p>
  <em>On my way home. Left the gym early. Thai food? X</em>
</p><p>She slips the phone back into her pocket, breaths coming in misty clouds as she rubs her palms together against the cold.</p><p>Some time later she’s rounding the corner of her street, the seductive scent of Thai cuisine wafting from the bag swinging on her fingertips. Her stomach gargles with the appetite she worked up blasting kicks into the gym bag, her shins that good type of sore, and she smiles, those feel-good workout endorphins heavy in her blood.</p><p>The sudden buzzing in her pocket takes her from her thoughts. </p><p>Switching the takeout bag to her other hand, she retrieves her phone. Answers, “’sup?”</p><p>“I just saw your text. How about Greek tonight instead babe? I threw up last time we had Thai, remember?”</p><p>“Yeah, only ‘cause you got blitzed tryna impress Finn, asshole. I'm never gonna get the smell out the carpet. He’s gonna gimme some money so we can get new carpet, 'cause if he hadn’t challenged you to that beer-off, the food would've stayed in your stomach.”</p><p>There's a beat of silence.</p><p>“How close to the apartment are you?”</p><p>Her brows knit as she crosses the dead street. “Why?”</p><p>“No reason!” he says far too quickly. “Except that I... want Greek food?”</p><p>“Fuck the Greek food, Noah. Why do you sound so freakin’ suspicious?”</p><p>“Suspicious? What are you talking about Santana?” A nervous chuckle. “I just want Greek –”</p><p>“And why are you breathing so hard?”</p><p>“I'm, I'm not breathing hard babe. What’s with the Spanish inquisition?”</p><p>“Oh my God, did you just zing me with a racist joke?”</p><p>“What? No. Why’re you always looking for somethin’ that’s not there?”</p><p>“I'm not. The fuck are you talking about?”</p><p>Santana's definitely not looking for the soft voice that wisps into earshot just then, but it's <em>definitely</em> there. “Wait, who’s there with you?”</p><p>“W-What?”</p><p>That one word, spoken with undeniable panic, is all Santana needs for the cogs in her mind to grind to a slow foreboding halt.</p><p>More silence fills the line then, followed by what sounds like an exchange of whispers.</p><p>“Who are you whispering to?” Santana demands.</p><p>“Nobody’s here, babe. It’s probably just the TV.”</p><p><em>Doesn’t sound like the God damn TV. Sounds like you got some bitch up in my apartment</em>.</p><p>“Okay,” Santana says slowly. “<em>Well</em>? What do you want from the Greek place?”</p><p>A relieved sigh floods her ear. “The usual – and which Greek joint you heading to? I'm just, I'm really hungry. How long do you think you’ll be?”</p><p>She slows her step. “Why does it matter how long I'm gonna be? I'm gonna be as long as it takes aren't I?”</p><p>“Why’re you getting pissed? I just asked a simple question, sheesh.”</p><p>“I’ll probably be another forty minutes or something; you know those damn places like to keep you waiting.”</p><p>“Great. Thanks babe. I love you.”</p><p>Santana pulls her phone away from her ear, frowns at it for a moment before returning it. “Yeah… love you too.”</p><p>“Bye.”</p><p>“Bye.”</p><p>Three minutes later she's stood before her apartment. </p><p>She gently sets the bag of Thai food down on the welcome mat, squinting at the door.</p><p>“I swear to God, Noah; if you’re smashing some slut in there, it’s your balls,” she whispers, slowly twisting the key in the lock and cautiously pushing.</p><p>Quiet, she bends to grab the takeout bag, carrying a stealth air into her lounge, where she's equally quiet about pushing the door closed and locking it.</p><p>The apartment is silent, everything in its place. TV black. </p><p>And it's strange how everything looks how it should, yet feels so... off.</p><p>
  <em>Probably just being paranoid. Cool it.</em>
</p><p>As Santana takes a step towards the kitchen, she hears it. </p><p>A soft throaty giggle and a dull thud. </p><p>Coming from the bedroom.</p><p>Her jaw clenches. “I'm gonna kill you mother fucker.”</p><p>She slings the takeout bag to the sofa, grabs the bat she keeps behind the bookcase, and approaches the bedroom door.</p><p>Her fingers curl around the handle, nostrils flared to accommodate deep slow breaths.</p><p><em>One</em>.</p><p><em>Two</em>.</p><p>She cranks the handle down, pushes the door ajar.</p><p>And that's when everything slows down, from Noah rolling off of the body beneath him, to the chick jolting up to pull the sheets around herself. </p><p><em>Santana's</em> sheets.</p><p>And <em>that's</em> when she loses it; lifts the bat back over her shoulder and charges the bed roaring, “you piece of shit!”</p><p>“Wait – shit, Santana I can explain!” Noah rushes out, tumbling from the bed in his haste to evade the onslaught. </p><p>He grabs the side of the bedside cabinet, quick to his feet. Quick enough to tuck his head behind his forearms as Santana swings.</p><p>“Fuck!” he wails out, the attacked flesh quickly ballooning. “Please,” he pants, holding his throbbing arm out between himself and the bat. “I'm, I'm sorry.”</p><p>“Sorry?” Santana shrieks. “How about you wipe that look off your stupid face and stop me decorating these walls with this whore’s brains?”</p><p>As if to punctuate the threat, she hurls the bat at the wide-eyed stranger, who just manages to duck the attack.</p><p>The headboard can't say the same, sporting a deep ugly new dent.</p><p>Noah blinks at it, murmurs, “holy shit,” before glancing the woman to see if her head's still on her shoulders, and when he turns back around, Santana throws her entire shoulder into a punch that turns his head.</p><p>His legs falter, feet stammering back as he clutches his jaw, and he runs his tongue along the new gash in his lip, stunned silent.</p><p>"Yeah, joto!" Santana spits, Spanish twang adding a new layer of menace. "I just clocked your jaw. <em><strong>What</strong></em>?" she challenges.</p><p>“Brittany, you need to, to get outta here. Fast.”</p><p>“<em>Brittany</em>?” Santana spits, hating how the name tastes. “That your name, you little slut?”</p><p>The mussed-haired blonde glances at Noah, then nods unsurely. “Um, y-yeah.”</p><p>“Brittany what?”</p><p>“S Pierce.”</p><p>“Spears?” Santana asks, attributing the seeming pause in pronunciation to fear. “Your name's Brittany fucking Spears?” She looks to Noah, disgusted. “Of course you couldn't just fuck Jane, or a Vanessa. No, it had to be Brittany Spears, you ridiculous dumbass.”</p><p>The blonde shakes her head, corrects, “it's Brittany <em>Esss</em> Pierce. Not Brittany Spears.”</p><p>“<em>Who</em> are you stressing letters of the alphabet at, dickpig?”</p><p>“You asked me if –”</p><p>“Shut the fuck up.”</p><p>“I – sorry.”</p><p>Santana dead-eyes her, saying nothing.</p><p>Brittany takes the steely silence as cue to slip out from beneath she sheets. She grabs the white blouse from the floor and quickly shrugs it on, bleeding an apologetic gaze over Santana, who she notices is shaking. “Look, I didn’t know... I'm really sorry,” she offers, kicking into the pair of jeans she’s just snatched from the floor.</p><p>Santana slings a knife-like hand in her direction. “You think I wanna hear you talk, bitch? Right now I don’t even want you breathing. If you say anything else I'm gonna punch your face inside out, got it?” </p><p>Brittany's lips draw into a remorseful pout, and she nods, figuring silence is the least she owes the woman. </p><p>Santana's glare darts back to the piece of shit sat cradling his jaw on the bed. “What did I tell you puto, huh?” she shouts. “I told you if I ever found you fucking some bitch, I’d make sure your body turned up somewhere stinkin' right? What, you thought I was playin'? Well you're about to find out.”</p><p>“Santana,” Noah sighs. “I'm…” He shrugs a defeated shoulder when he realizes that nothing he says will fix this, but he tries again anyway. “I'm…”</p><p>“A piece of shit,” Santana finishes, nodding her head on each syllable like Noah's retarded. “And in our bed too? Fuck you! You said you loved me on the phone just now, you fuck. <em>Both</em> you mother fuckers are gonna hear from me. Now get the fuck out!”</p>
<hr/><p>Brittany perches herself on the corner of the desk, reaches over and taps Noah's shoulder.</p><p>He looks up so sharp the computer monitor on the desk shakes. “Oh,” he says, releasing a relieved breath once he sees it’s just Brittany. “Hey.” </p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>Noah glances around the office.</p><p>Brittany tilts her head to the side, asks “you ok Noah?”</p><p>“Yeah,” he breathes out, sounding nothing of the sort.</p><p>She nods at the mug in her grip and sits it on the desk. “I brought coffee. Two sugars, semi-strong.”</p><p>Noah's face approaches a grateful smile, but it quickly turns into a wince once the sore muscles around his jaw engage. “Thanks Britt. Just what I need: coffee to keep me alert.” He performs another glance around the office.</p><p>That’s when Brittany places a gentle hand to his bouncing knee. “Noah, what are you looking for?”</p><p>“Nothin’.” He bears the pain to flash her a fake smile. “Everything’s great.”</p><p>“Why didn’t you tell me you were living with her?”</p><p>And just like that, Noah’s pseudo content shatters.</p><p>“You told me you guys weren’t that serious – that you had an open relationship. But it was super serious and you were living with her.” </p><p>Brittany's tone is neither abrasive nor accusatory. It’s soft. Curiousity tinged with slight disappointment.</p><p>“Okay, so I'm an asshole for lying to you. I screwed up – have you seen yourself? But I... I love her, Britt. We have our problems but I love her.”</p><p>After a few beats Brittany shrugs, the heels of her shoes humming against the side of the desk as she casually swings her legs. “I can see why you love her. She’s like, totally beautiful.”</p><p>Noah frowns, knowing <em>that</em> look anywhere. “Britt –”</p><p>“And she's that fiery kind of passionate. Protective too, I'll bet. Probably stupid amazing in bed.”</p><p>He dips his head, narrowing his eyes at her. “Seriously, are you really getting a boner for my ex girlfriend right now?”</p><p>Brittany looks to her lap, pushing Noah’s shoulder when she sees there’s not a tent in her skirt. “I don’t have a penis, silly. I'm a <em>girl</em>. Everybody knows girls don’t have penises." A naughty smirk captures her lips. "Not real ones anyway.”</p><p>“Britt?”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“This is weird.”</p><p>“This is life!” Brittany counters, playful. “I don’t know why you even bothered with me when you had Santana waiting at home for you. She’s gorgeous, like, <em>beyond belief</em>.”</p><p>Noah places his hands on Brittany’s shoulders, firm, as if to ground her. “Brittany, she threw a bat at your head intending to <em>kill</em> you – maim you for life at the very least.” Satisfied he's gotten the message across, he lets go of her.</p><p>“Right, but she was upset,” Brittany reasons. “Like, I totally get it. I probably would’ve been the same.”</p><p>“No, Santana's pretty much always like that,” he says, sitting up and glancing around the office again, before returning his eyes to Brittany. “Angry. If it’s not one thing it’s another. Do you know how exhausting it is to live with someone who’s always mad? Apart from the angry sex she used to just spring on me, it’s hell.”</p><p>Curiosity furrows Brittany's eyebrows. “Have you ever asked her why she’s so upset all the time?”</p><p>“You’re not getting it. She’s never upset – if only. She's angry. Always.”</p><p>“But Noah, anger's just hurt with all the theatrics.”</p><p>He regards her with quiet wonderment, puzzled as to how Brittany, of all people, always seems to offer such profoundly simple insights.</p><p>“So have you ever asked her why she’s always so upset?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Why not? You should always acknowledge how your partner’s feeling, right?”</p><p>“Not with Santana. She’s not really a feelings kind of girl. She watches UFC.”</p><p>"Me FC? What's that mean?"</p><p>"No, not <em>you</em> you. The letter 'u'. You know UFC, right? The Ultimate Fighting Championship, where guys punch and kick chunks out of each other? She even trains in martial arts herself." He gestures at his bruised face, indicates, “some of her handy work. Damn near took me off my feet.”</p><p>"Oh, UFC. Gotcha. But maybe she just likes to watch half-naked men get sweaty together."</p><p>"Nope. She likes to watch them knock each other out, because she’s an angry person."</p><p>Brittany nods, clasping her hands in the dip of her skirt and staring at them. “I almost feel like I should talk to her, or... or something. I mean, yeah you lied. But I knew you guys were together and I still let you tap this, so I kinda feel like I owe her an explanation.” She looks up at Noah. “You know?”</p><p>He scoots his chair towards her, eyes flitting around the office as he leans in close. “Come closer.”</p><p>When Brittany leans in he whispers a harsh: “Are you crazy?"</p><p>A slow grin creeps over her features. "A little bit."</p><p>"She wanted to murder you last week. I still haven’t worked out why she didn’t. So just...” Noah sucks in a large breath, blows it back out again. “Lay low and stay out of her way.”</p><p>“So you want the woman you love to just go through life angry, without ever talking to anyone about why she’s so upset all the time?” Brittany asks.</p><p>“She’s dangerous!” Noah blurts, frustrated. “Okay? She’s the niece of Alsarvio Lopez. One of New York’s most notorious organized mobsters. All she has to do is make a phone call, and I could be murdered without anybody ever hearing the gunshot. You too.”</p><p>Brittany raises her eyebrows. “Shit, that's insane. Really?”</p><p>“Yeah. And you gave her your name, which means she can find out where you live. So just, please, stay out of her way and be careful. It was a stupid idea for me to take you back to the apartment in the first place. I guess I just got lost in my boner.” </p><p>He half sighs half groans, wanting to bang his head against the desk.</p>
<hr/><p>“Want something to eat?”</p><p>“No,” Santana bites back, bent on destroying the kitchen table's surface with her glare.</p><p>“A drink?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Mercedes looks her friend over, clicks her tongue. “Come on Satan, you gotta eat. You vanish off the face of the earth for two weeks, then I come round to find you like this?” She slings a disgusted hand at the overflowing bin, and various other filthy hotspots. "Come on, let me make you something."</p><p>“No. What I need to do is find out where this bitch lives so I can give her the facial reconstructive surgery she’s always wanted. Bitch looks like a God damn cat.”</p><p>Mercedes shuts the fridge door, puts the milk on the kitchen counter, and sighs. “You know that skank probably didn’t even know you existed.”</p><p>“Oh, she knew alright,” Santana growls to herself, trembling with quiet fury. “I spoke to him on the phone like five minutes before I caught them, heard the bitch say something in the background, but I wasn't sure. Fucking asshole said he loved me and called me babe a bunch of times. She was there. She knew about me and didn’t give a fuck. Bitches like that aren’t right.” She slams her palm to the table and explodes up out of her seat, the chair legs screeching against the tiled floor. “So I’ma fix her with my fists.”</p><p>“Santana, look at me,” Mercedes says. “Santana!” she demands after a while.</p><p>The latina lifts her glare from a knot in the table's wood, something glassy about her dour coffee hues.</p><p>“Puck’s the one who screwed up here, man. Let that little skank live. It’s not worth going back to jail over. Feds just sit around waiting for you Lopez's to fuck up; they'll love locking you up.”</p><p>Santana doesn't respond, prompting Mercedes to ask, “what are you thinking, mama?”</p><p>“I...” </p><p>Santana's stony expression cracks under the weight of the pain she's suppressing, her shoulders slumping.</p><p>Mercedes is there in seconds, tugging her shuddering friend into a hug. "Shh. Everything's gonna be okay. His lyin' ass is gone. You'll be back to regular old Santana, 'beat a bitch down,' Lopez in no time, you hear me?"</p><p>Santana nods, sniffling into Mercedes shoulder. "Tell anyone I broke down like this, and I'll set fire to your weave." </p><p>Mercedes holds her closer, smirks. "Do that and I'll rip the strands out your head with such ferocity, your thoughts'll come with 'em."</p><p>Another watery sniffle. "Thanks."</p><p>"Anytime Satan. Now," Mercedes begins, pulling back with an encouraging smile, "go sit your ass down and get ready to eat this soup I’m about to make."</p><p>Santana sniffs, drags her inner elbow across her wet eyes. "Cool. Lemme just go make a quick phone call."</p>
<hr/><p>He mounts the sofa and leans into the window sill, cautiously peaking through a slat in the blinds.</p><p>"Puck, relax. It's been over a week. If she was gonna do anything she would've done it by now."</p><p>Puck takes his finger from the blinds and they slink back into formation. "You obviously don't know Santana, bro. Here." He turns around, extends a wrinkled twenty dollar bill to his friend. "Get me some cigarettes and a bottle of vodka from the liquor store."</p><p>"But...I'm not going to the liquor store."</p><p>Puck sighs, ruffles the overgrown strands of his mohawk. "Dude, come on man. I can't go out there and I'm gasping for a cigarette."</p><p>"If it's this serious maybe you should, I don't know, <em>go to the cops</em>," Finn says, like the solution's stupid obvious.</p><p>"I'm no snitch. I'm not going to the cops; that's a bitch move."</p><p>"What, and moving in here and jumping every time me or Rach flip a light switch isn't?"</p><p>"Finn, come on."</p><p>Finn rolls his eyes, begrudgingly takes the money. "Rachel's gonna be home soon, so wash your dishes," he says, shrugging on his jacket. "I don't need her bitching at me about you staying here again."</p><p>The moment he opens the front door there's a large gloved hand pressed to his chest, pushing him back inside the apartment. </p><p>He stumbles the kind of stumble that'd make any grown man look stupid, shoulder crashing into the hallway wall.</p><p>The impact knocks him to the floor, where he grimaces up into dark sunglasses, a sharp nose, and lips framed by a dark handle-bar moustache.</p><p>"Where is he?"</p><p>"W-Who, uh...” Finn gulps down a frog, throat a desert. “W-Who are you t-talkin' about?"</p><p>The man kicks the door shut with the corner of his polished black shoe, crouches down next to the stuttering fool cowering before him. He sniffs with a cold nonchalance, bumps Finn's quivering knee with his elbow as if they're just two friends messing around. "If I gotta ask you again, there's gonna be a problem. You receiving me?" The man nods slowly, as if to hurry Finn's comprehension along. "So where is he?"</p><p>Finn feebly jerks his head in the direction of the lounge. "I-I-In there."</p><p>"Good man." </p><p>The intruder slams his palm down on Finn's kneecap, rises to his feet, and then enters the lounge.</p><p>Behind his shades his eyes veer around the room, stopping at the open window and rattling blinds. </p><p>He smirks, taking out his phone to speed dial his partner. </p><p>“Hello?”</p><p>"Little bastard got out through the front window. You guys got him?"</p><p>"What do you think this is? The amateur leagues? He's in the back of the van."</p><p>"I'll be out in two ticks. Let me just make myself a sandwich. I'm famished."</p>
<hr/><p>Suddenly there's kids everywhere, more and more pouring out of the building's double doors by the second. </p><p>Santana smiles at a few, slipping her brass-knuckle-clad fist behind her back as she leans back into the building, real casual.</p><p>Like she's not gonna have to drive home with blood on her clothes. </p><p>Patient as a detective tailing a mark, she waits. Watches child after child burst through the doors and flock into the arms of a parent – sometimes even two.</p><p>They're lucky, Santana internally laments. Especially those with a mother and a father. </p><p>When the steady flow of children ceases, she breezes through the double doors with a confidence that suggests she's supposed to be there – even attracts a smile from the lady at the reception desk.</p><p>As if scripted, she immediately spots Brittany in a room a little down the hall.</p><p>Blonde hair thrown up in a bun so loose it's almost silly. Loose yellow t-shirt and baggy grey sweats that spill into white sneakers. </p><p>Santana figures the kids must've cleared out entirely, because the only body moving around the small dance studio is Brittany.</p><p>Fist still concealed behind her back, she steps into the doorway, stands there watching the flush-faced blonde tidy up.</p><p>"Give me a reason not to murder you in here today."</p><p>Brittany's fingers still on her duffel bag's zipper. She slowly rises from her crouched position and turns around. </p><p>"Santana," she states.</p><p>"That doesn't sound like a reason." </p><p>Santana ventures inside then, pushes the door in with a soft but menacing click. </p><p>She crosses the modestly-sized space, stopping once she's eye to eye with Brittany. "Do you have any idea what I'm gonna do to you, princess?"</p><p>"Look, Santana, Noah's a total idiot for ever speaking to me when he already had such a beautiful girlfriend." </p><p>“You tricks were doing <em>way</em> more than talking when I put a pin in your little fuck party, puta. I had to buy a new bed. Next day delivery.”</p><p>Brittany looks to the floor, mumbles, "I'm super sorry about what happened. Noah said you had an open relationship. Here." She reaches into the pocket of her sweats, and when her hand re-appears, there's a pink lollipop in her palm. "Want a lollipop?"</p><p>Santana nods her head back sharp, frowning. "You think compliments and offering me candy's gonna stop me killing you in here today, perra?" She slaps Brittany's hand away, the lollipop rolling out across the floor.</p><p>Brittany just stares at her.</p><p>That anger Noah told her about; she can see it. Feel it wafting off the pretty woman in large oppressive waves.</p><p>It intrigues her, breathes sadness and unimaginable curiosity into her. Like when a particularly beautiful flower calls, and you just have to go investigate. </p><p>So she asks. Asks the question nobody else ever seems to. "Why are you so angry?"</p><p>Santana steps into her, trying to get her to take a step back. But Brittany's sneakers don't move an inch, and it calls a sick smirk about Santana's lips.</p><p>"You're one of those stupid bitches, aren't you?"</p><p>Brittany’s brows knit and she reprimands, “hey! I'm not stupid!”</p><p>It’s what Santana wants; a rise out of this whore. </p><p>She grins. “That’s right, feel froggy – hell, leap! I'll beat the breaks off of you,” she husks, shoulders rolling with a delighted shiver. “Let’s see who’s gonna teach those sweet kids to dance when you’re a vegetable.”</p><p>Brittany rolls her eyes, bends to grab her duffel bag, which she hoists up on her shoulder once she's vertical again. “Call me stupid all day long if you want.” She shrugs. “I get that you’re mad at me and Noah – and rightfully so. But I'm telling you I'm sorry, and I didn't know you guys were serious. You could pull those knuckledusters out from behind your back and put me on my ass, but you're only gonna feel better for a second. Then you're gonna go home, think about finding me with Noah, and feel miserable all over again.” </p><p>Santana glances around, acknowledges all of the mirrors for the first time.</p><p><em>Shit</em>.</p><p>She pulls her fist out from behind her back, feeling like she's lost face for having been out-smarted by someone she’s just called stupid.</p><p>“I'd like to explain what happened. I mean, you must have questions right? We could totally go to Starbucks. I’ll buy you a coffee and a muffin and we'll talk. You can even bring your brass knuck’s.”</p><p>“Are you retarded or something?”</p><p>Brittany parts her lips to respond, but Santana shakes her head, not finished. “You really think I wanna sit down and drink coffee with you? – And hold up." Santana shakes her head again, like what she suspects <strong><em>can't</em></strong> be true. "Are you fucking <em>hitting</em> on me?”</p><p>Brittany dares to entertain a shy smile. “Like I said, I really don’t know how Noah even managed to see me when he already had you.”</p><p>Suddenly feeling invaded by their proximity, Santana steps back, the brass knuck's slipping slightly as the uncertainty of the situation tugs her fist loose. She runs a hand halfway through her hair and leaves it there, staring off into the far wall. “Oh my God. This is so fucked up,” she murmurs. </p><p>Recovered somewhat, she lets her arm fall back to her side and peers at Brittany, now seeing the situation for what it is. “I should beat you like a drum, you dyke. But I'm afraid you’d enjoy the contact.”</p><p>“I'm not a dyke,” Brittany states softly, and her tenderness only fuels Santana's ire. "Labels are for canned food, like tuna."</p><p>“You’re up in here tryna take a chica out for coffee and a God damn muffin! I say that makes you a fucking fruit.”</p><p>“I don't even really like fruit. I'm attracted to people, not gender.”</p><p>“I don’t give a fuck!” Santana roars, right back up in Brittany’s face again. "Save the public service announcement for someone who gives a fuck."</p><p>Brittany's blue-eyed gaze falls to her lips, and Santana clocks it, instantly <em>the</em> most uncomfortable she's been in a while.</p><p>She trips slightly in her haste to step back again.</p><p>"Are you okay Santa–”</p><p>Santana quickly bats Brittany's outreaching hand away before it makes contact with her. “Don't touch me unless you wanna pull back a bloody stub, fuckface!”</p><p>“I just want you to be okay, Santana. I feel crummy about what happened. How can I make you feel better?”</p><p>It's in that moment, with that question and all of its implications hanging between them, that Santana realizes this isn't gonna go the way she wants – that she's too ruffled to pull the trigger on this clown.</p><p>At least for now.</p><p>“Santana, are you okay?”</p><p>“You know what?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“It's your lucky day. You know why? 'Cause I don’t think beating your brains out is worth the jail time anymore. So here’s what’s gonna happen: I'm gonna continue to live my life in this big beautiful city, and if I ever see your vacuous face again, it’ll be the last time anybody does, got it? Nod for me.”</p><p>“Santana –”</p><p>“No, no, no. I said nod. <em>Now</em>.”</p><p>“Fine,” Brittany sighs, giving a small stiff nod.</p><p>“Perfect.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"So go out with him. Especially if he's paying."</p><p>"I don't know, 'Cedes," Santana says, biting into her pizza slice and chewing for a while. "He's hot, sure. But I don't know if I can handle the fact that he's a ballerina."</p><p>Mercedes chuckles, shaking her head at life's twisted sense of humor. <em>Always</em> a catch.</p><p>"Well at least you're dating again, so that's something. Which is... more than I can say for myself," she sighs, returning from the kitchen with a bowl of cheese puffs. She drops to the couch beside Santana, puts the bowl on the coffee table. "All I'm attracting is women lately."</p><p>Santana rears back, eyes wide. "Wait, <em>what</em>?" she shrieks through her mouthful of beer and pizza.</p><p>She swallows the mixture, starts bouncing up and down as she shakes Mercedes' shoulder. "<em>Drop</em> the deets!" she demands with child-like enthusiasm. "Why come I haven't heard about this before? I wants those deets."</p><p>"Girl, how many Budweisers have you had?"</p><p>"Enough to know that if <em>I'm</em> not watching my alcohol intake, <em>you</em> sure as hell shouldn't be." She shrugs, sassy with it.</p><p>Mercedes laughs, prying the beer from Santana's hand only to start sipping it herself.</p><p>"We're sharing bottles now? I cudda just swallowed some guy's nut on my way here."</p><p>Mercedes pauses, arches an intrigued eyebrow. "That a confession?"</p><p>"If it was, damn sure wouldn't have been some fag ballerina's nut. Believe that." Santana looks to the TV. "Oooh look, Sesame Street just started."</p><p>"You're about two seconds away from losing your horns. That's how pink and fluffy you are right now."</p><p>"Hey, no changing the subject, Ellen Degenerate. Spill the tea on your new penchant for pussy."</p><p>Mercedes scrunches her nose at that description. "Ew."</p><p>"<em>Spill</em>."</p><p>"Well... I went shopping a few days ago. She rolled up asking for the time."</p><p>Santana smirks, curls her feet beneath herself and cosies up to the sofa. "Shit sounds funny already."</p><p>"So I gave her the time and, tryna be discreet about it, she starts following me round the store. Now, I thought she was either tryna rob me or pin a shoplift on a sista, but just as I'm leaving she stops me, talkin' 'bout, '<em>can I get your number</em>?'"</p><p>Santana throws her head back with full-lunged laughter, cradling her clenched stomach and kicking her feet.</p><p>"Glad you're amused 'cause I wasn't. She looked every bit a dude. I only knew she had ovaries 'cause of her voice."</p><p>Catching her breath, Santana sweeps her tussled black mane out of her face, accidentally knocks her glasses crooked as she thumbs the tears from the corners of her eyes.</p><p>She rights her frames and cups her open mouth, still dumbfounded. "Oh. My. <em>God</em>. What did you say back?" she asks through the gaps in her fingers. "Tell me you snatched the bitch's wig."</p><p>Mercedes hands Santana her beer back and reaches for the cigarette pack on the table. "I didn't do <em>that</em>. But I did write the number for my mom's church on the back of her hand. Then I got the hell on outta there."</p><p>Without so much as a glance at each other, they both throw a hand up, hi-fiving.</p><p>Santana twists to look at the TV then, settling into a contemplative stare with it. "Yeah," she breathes out. "I think they're breeding them on farms or something. God damn fags are everywhere these days. Just look at what went down with the slut Noah was screwing."</p><p>"Mmhmm." Mercedes nods, cheeks hollowing on a particularly long draw on her cigarette. "Grandma used to say it was a sign we were in the last days. And by the way," she says, disappearing behind swirls of smoke, "I was really impressed you didn't beat that girl a new vagina."</p><p>"Yeah," Santana sighs. She fidgets, dusts something invisible off her thigh. "I mean, I would've. Beaten her a new vagina."</p><p>"Why didn't you? You never really gave a straight answer the first time I asked."</p><p>Santana scratches her nose and chugs the last of her beer, sitting the bottle on the table with a loud clink.</p><p>"Okay mama, don't break my table."</p><p>"My bad."</p><p>"How come you didn't end up on the news for disfiguring that girl?"</p><p>"Maybe I just didn't feel like catching a case. There's no dick in prison."</p><p>"You okay Satan?"</p><p>"Uh, yeah. Why?"</p><p>"Jail time's never bothered you before."</p><p>"Maybe I'm turning a new leaf. Just drop it!" Santana snaps.</p><p>"You're the one who brought it up. And then you started acting shiftier than a mother fucker."</p><p>"Whatever."</p><p>Mercedes rests her cigarette in the ashtray and turns so that she's facing her friend fully. She stares at her for a few seconds, and then she speaks: "It's me you're talking to now. You ain't gotta edit the truth with me. I don't give a fuck about this front you put up."</p><p>"It's not a damn front. It's who I am. Santana Maria Lopez. The fiery chica who'll rock your jaw for looking at her wrong."</p><p>"Well look at you." Mercedes shakes her head like a disappointed mother. "Talking about yourself in third person like you're not even here. A damn character out of a book."</p><p>"She's ditzy, alright? Like she's semi-retarded or something. When I thought about that – and then the time I was looking at for popping her? Not worth it."</p><p>"Not buying it."</p><p>"Why's it so hard to believe I didn't smash her 'cause she was ditzier than a mother, and I didn't wanna go back to jail?"</p><p>"Because I know you, S. Because when you wanna beat a bitch's face in for disrespecting you, you never stop to fret about jail time. <em>Especially</em> if you've already gone to the trouble of finding work addresses, and you're up in her face wearing some knuck's."</p><p>"So... so what, 'cause I didn't go through with it you think I've gone soft?"</p><p>"No, that's not it at all." Mercedes sighs, later kissing her teeth. "Man, you know what? Just forget it."</p><p>"No! I fight every day! Whether I'm fighting to come to terms with my folks getting murdered, or fighting the bitch at the liquor store who slicked me the wrong change, or fighting that I'm... the fact that –" Santana stops herself, blinks entirely too many times. She briefly closes her eyes, resetting. "Look, I fight. Every day. And sometimes I just... sometimes I get tired. So she got away this time, and it's gonna <em>be</em> that provided she stays outta my face."</p><p>It's only half the truth and Mercedes knows it, but she figures she's pushed hard enough for one night. "Hey, if that's really the case it's cool. The truth. That's all I ever want from you. We roll upfront with each other. That's how it's always been, right?"</p><p>"Yeah... upfront," Santana mutters, shooting her lap a solemn glance.</p><p>"That's right. So don't shut me out, 'cause I see you chica," Mercedes says, bumping Santana's shoulder with her own, a smile floating on her lips.</p><p>"No, don't nudge me like we're tight. I still have hate in my heart for you right now," Santana mumbles, fighting a smile of her own.</p><p>Mercedes nudges her again. "Quit playin'. You know you love these little talks."</p><p>"I'm never coming here again."</p><hr/><p>"Is it bad that I kinda wanna run into Santana again?"</p><p>Artie wheels himself around the armchair, finds Brittany slumped in it pouting.</p><p>"Well..." He lifts his eyes to the ceiling, feigning extensive thought. Then he nods. Ardently. "Considering she vowed to have the mob take care of you if she ever saw you again, <em>yes</em>, it's bad that you wanna run into her."</p><p>Brittany's pout grows. "She's sooo cute," she whines. "And hot. I wish you'd seen her. Your legs would've started working again. Like, that's how stunning she is."</p><p>"So she's Jesus now?"</p><p>"No. Jesus wasn't hot – was he?"</p><p>"I doubt Jesus was even real."</p><p>Brittany gasps, sitting up. "Don't say that. What if he was real and his ghost hears you? He'll regret dying for mankind's sins, and then I'll feel bad. Or what if Santana <em>is</em> Jesus, but reincarnated?"</p><p>Artie pushes his glasses up. "Britt, with the things you've told me about Santana, I feel like she'd wheel me off a mountain just for being your roomie. Not. Very. Jesus-like."</p><p>"She's perfect and it makes me sad."</p><p>Artie holds up his hand, begins to tally each finger off: "Mobster bloodline, aggressive, violent, homophobic, <em>and</em> the victim of your affair with Puck. Just <em>perfect</em>."</p><p>"I guess you're right," Brittany mumbles. "I think I'm sad because Lord Tubbington passed away and I'm having lady cramps right now." She runs her hand down her taught stomach, feels it gurgle beneath her palm. "She didn't wanna hurt me Artie, you know? Otherwise she would've. I don't know why she chose not to hurt me. I just know that she chose not to, and that's what I'm going with."</p><p>"But she <em>can</em> hurt you, Brittany. That's all that counts."</p><p>"I know where she lives. Maybe I could buy something from the costume store – show up at her door claiming to be the gas lady or something." A smirk marks her features. "I'd check her gas," she giggles, imagining a frowny Santana rubbing her stomach as she lets one rip.</p><p>"I'm so relieved you're just joking."</p><p>"It's almost six. I gotta go teach the kids in an hour. I'll decide what I'm gonna do whilst I'm out."</p><p>Artie's relief shrivels, leaving an ugly frown in his brow. "What do you mean you'll decide what you're gonna do? Brittany, you can't go anywhere near that apartment."</p><p>She smiles. "I won't be there long."</p><p>"No!" Artie puts his foot down. "She's dangerous, Brittany. What if she's not feeling so gracious this time and attacks you? I can't do anything." He gestures at his wheelchair helplessly. "Except call the cops maybe. And by then it'll be too late."</p><p>"Then, at least I'd get to be with Lord Tubbington and Jesus."</p><p>Artie deadpans, sorely unamused.</p><p>"I'm <em>kidding</em>!" Brittany stresses. "I do miss Tubs though," she adds sadly.</p><p>They're quiet for a while, Brittany lifting her leg so she can see the toe she recently stubbed. It still hurts a little.</p><p>"Artie?"</p><p>Gazing up at the long toned limb, Artie's only coherent enough for a vague: "Hm?"</p><p>"Where's the voice changer you bought for Halloween?"</p><p>He snaps out of his daze. "What? Why?"</p><p>"If I put on a mask and hook the voice changer up to it, I could talk to Santana without her knowing it's me. I mean, the deal was: if she ever saw my face again, she'd get mad. Masks solve that."</p><p>"What in the world would you say to her? She'll be creeped out by the mask, <em>and</em> the fact that you sound like Stephen Hawking. Plus..." Artie pauses, not wanting to hurt his friend but knowing it's necessary. "Britt, I don't think she wants to talk to you very much."</p><p>"I have to at least try."</p><p>"You need to steer clear, Britt, especially since you said you haven't been able to contact Noah recently."</p><p>"I still think about her and it's been, like, two months. I can't just give up."</p><p>"Brittany, listen to me: you <em>have</em> to stop this! Don't be stupid."</p><p>Brittany freezes at that word.</p><p>She stands, grabs Artie's wheelchair handles and rolls him past the kitchen into the hallway.</p><p>"Hey, uh, what – Britt, w-what are you doing?"</p><p>She stops at his bedroom door, reaching past him to open it before she wheels him inside and leaves.</p><p>Surrounded by the silence of his belongings, Artie realizes his error, wincing at his carelessness. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say stupid!" he shouts over the sound of Brittany's feet pattering down the hallway.</p><hr/><p>It's been thirty minutes since the shiny gold box fell through the mail slot.</p><p>Which is an event, given it's ten-twenty-five at night.</p><p>Santana's treating it like an event too, hasn't taken her eyes off the box since placing it on the kitchen counter.</p><p>It looks harmless enough, the gleaming red ribbon giving off Christmas vibes. But if Santana's learned anything at all from growing up a Lopez, it's that the devil has many beautiful disguises.</p><p>"This better not blow up in my face," she says, reaching a cautious finger out towards it.</p><p>Quickly, she shoves the box and retracts her hand, jumping back in anticipation of her apartment, and everything in it, being blown sky high.</p><p>But nothing happens.</p><p>It's just her and the box. Only now it's turned on its side.</p><p>She clicks her tongue at herself, mumbles, "and there it is ladies and gentleman; that crime family paranoia."</p><p>She snatches the box and bats off the lid. Something falls from it, fluttering to the floor.</p><p>She picks the piece of paper up and unfolds it, the box in her other hand momentarily forgotten.</p><p>
  <em>Because nobody else on this planet – except maybe Jesus, 'cause you know, he's magical and everything – could look as stunning as you whilst wearing knuckledusters : -)</em>
</p><p>Santana runs her squint over the fine handwriting, with its unicorn-head doodles to dot the I's.</p><p>"Brittany," she realizes aloud, tossing the note over her shoulder as she rushes to look inside the box.</p><p>What she finds is an elegantly packaged silver chain, with a knuckleduster pendant at the centre.</p><p>The TV light suddenly catches it, and the pendant gleams, almost smug.</p><p>A taunt.</p><p>Santana's eyes harden, because <em>clearly</em> Brittany thinks this is a game.</p><p>The box slips from her grasp as she races to the bedroom, and she's on her knees beside the bed in an instant, fingers feeling around beneath it until they brush with a shoebox.</p><p>She drags it into the light, rips away the lid, and pulls out her Beretta 92.</p><p>"Alright. You wanna play bitch?" she says, thumbing back the weapon's hammer. "Let's play."</p><hr/><p>A small hand slips into Brittany's, tugging incessantly. "Brittany! Brittany! My dad's here now!"</p><p>"Okay," Brittany giggles, sifting through the mess of CD's on the stereo system. "I'll just be a second."</p><p>"He really wants to meet you after all the things I told him you taught me," the little girl beams, green eyes luminous as she tugs her teacher's hand once more. "Come on, he's right outside!"</p><p>Brittany hits the stop button on the stereo, and Chris Brown's <em>Beautiful People</em> ceases to thrum through the small studio. She sweeps her CD's into her duffel bag and zips it up, hoisting it over her shoulder.</p><p>Then she turns around, smiling at the freckle-faced girl. "Right. All set, my little peppercorn."</p><p>The afternoon wind almost bowls them over once they're outside, but little Stacey is undeterred, pulling her teacher along against the force with fierce determination.</p><p>They reach a clean-shaven man who's staring off into the bush surrounding the premises, his suit a tailored fit, hair slicked like Mr Suave.</p><p>Stacey pats his upper thigh. "Dad look! It's Brittany! She taught me how to do all those cool moves I showed you and Daniel last night!"</p><p>The fair-haired man fondly ruffles his daughter's hair, offering Brittany an indecipherable smile. "Nice to meet you. Stacey's always talking about you." He leans in and cups the side of his mouth, whispering, "sometimes I think her mom gets a little jealous."</p><p>"What? For real? I'm totally not trying to steal anybody's kids."</p><p>"That may be, but I don't think the little one would mind it so much."</p><p>"That's super sweet. Thanks."</p><p>"Nothing to do with me, and everything to do with the bond you've created with her. It's Brittany talk twenty-four-seven, and I can see why. But the little one never mentioned you were this pretty."</p><p>Brittany glances down at her clothes, drags the back of her hand across her clammy forehead. "Thanks, but I don't feel very pretty right now." She lifts her arm, gives the dark patch in the armpit of her <em>I'm pretty sure Dr Pepper is a Dentist</em> shirt a sniff. "I need a shower."</p><p>Stacey swings their clasped hands, adamant that, "you're <em>always</em> pretty, shower or no shower!"</p><p>Her father smirks. "I'm siding with my daughter on this one."</p><p>"Aw. Thanks guys. You're gonna make me get all shy and stuff."</p><p>The man drops to a crouch before his daughter. She giggles as he draws the pad of his finger down her nose and says, "why don't you go wait in the car? I'll be with you in a second, alright princess? – And don't forget to hit the central lock button."</p><p>"Ok dad." Stacey releases Brittany's hand, only to throw her arms around her. Tightly. "Bye Brittany. See you next week."</p><p>"Bye sweetheart. See you then."</p><p>Stacey skips off, and Brittany's suddenly alone with her student's father, the air charged with something imminent.</p><p>"So," he begins, peering at a bird soaring low in the sky, "this is a little forward, and I don't wanna come off as some predatory pervert here – especially since this is the first time we're meeting – but, I don't know, wanna maybe grab dinner some time?"</p><p>Brittany touches his arm, pity in her eyes. "Hey, I don't think that bird can hear you from up there."</p><p>He chuckles. "No, I mean – I meant – you and I."</p><p>"<em>Oh</em>! – But wait, aren't you already with Stacey's mom?"</p><p>"What, Hillary?" he asks, as if it's the most obscene notion ever to hit his ears.</p><p>"I don't know who Hillary is, but if she's Stacey's mom, yeah."</p><p>"We're not together anymore. Haven't been for over three years."</p><p>"Oh. I mean," she drawls, "I <em>would</em> say yes, but I kind of already have my eye on someone else."</p><p>"Of course. Lucky guy."</p><p>"She's a woman," Brittany corrects him.</p><p>"Oh."</p><p>She smiles thinking of Santana, adding an almost boastful: "And she's totally hot."</p><p>"Um…"</p><p>"Like, you wouldn't believe how hot she is. Like, God was totally showing off when he dropped her off in her mom's stomach."</p><p>"Right. Well… she's a lucky woman then?"</p><p>Brittany grins. "She hasn't gotten lucky just yet. But I'm working on it, you know?"</p><p>The man gulps, fighting off the image of Brittany and some gorgeous model type rolling around in bed. "Well, good luck. She'd be a fool not to take you up on your offer."</p><p>He glances at his Mercedes-Benz. "I better be going. But it was really nice to meet you, Brittany."</p><p>"Wait, I didn't get your name. What was it again?"</p><p>He looks at her, smiles warm. "Alan."</p><p>"Bye then, Alan. Drive safely."</p><p>"Wait, I can drive you home if you're walking."</p><p>Brittany smiles softly but shakes her head. "No thanks. I only live, like, fifteen minutes away. And I'm not gonna lie, I enjoy pulling faces at guys who're getting haircuts through the barbershop window."</p><p>A throaty chuckle rolls through Alan's broad shoulders. "I can see why Stacey's always talking about you. There's this um…" He pauses, waits for the right descriptive to fall into his lap. "Light! Yeah. There's this light about you."</p><p>"You're set on trying to make me blush."</p><p>Alan notes her blushed cheeks. "It suits you. Bye Brittany, I'll see you around."</p><p>"Bye Alan."</p><p>From where Santana's stood across the street, she watches Brittany wave the man off. Waits until his car pulls away.</p><p>"Finally," she says when it does, drawing the ribs of her coat closed over the gun that's stuffed into her waistline.</p><p>Brittany's just passed Lenny's DIY Store when she thinks she hears footsteps behind her.</p><p>Her gait slows.</p><p>She shoots a glance over her shoulder.</p><p>No one's there.</p><p>She shrugs, resuming her stride, her mind active with theories about where the pee goes when one flushes a trailer toilet.</p><p>"'Sup Britt-Britt."</p><p>At the sound of that sultry smooth voice, Brittany turns around.</p><p>She blinks in the sight of Santana.</p><p>Once.</p><p>Twice.</p><p>Three times, not yet daring to believe this is real, which inevitably prompts: "Santana?"</p><p>Santana smiles, and Brittany's not sure if this is a prank her garden gnomes put together, in order to punish her for accidentally breaking the red-bellied one.</p><p>She has to be sure. So through a squint, she repeats, "Santana?"</p><p>"Live and in HD. I'd do a twirl but we're in public."</p><p>Brittany notices the chain around her neck, the knuckleduster pendant resting at her cleavage. "You liked it. You liked the necklace."</p><p>"I love it. How about we walk and talk? I know this park we can go to that's not too far."</p><p>"Sure."</p><p>They fall into stride with one another, Santana a little in front.</p><p>"You look super cute today."</p><p>Santana bites her tongue, burying her outburst in favor of a forced, "thanks Britt. That's kind."</p><p>"Meanwhile I'm just this gross sweaty slob. Sorry if the body odor has a kick. Kids will work you into the ground if you let them."</p><p>Santana humors that with a plastic chuckle, doesn't look at Brittany once. "I'm sure they're relentless."</p><p>"They're freakin' awesome."</p><p>"I'm sure they are."</p><p>"I love teaching them. They're like little sponges, soaking up moves even I struggled with at that age. They're the reason I quit the office and started teaching full-time."</p><p>"Cute."</p><p>"So, did you wanna talk about what happened with Noah? Or did you wanna discuss the details of this date I'm gonna take you on?"</p><p>Santana stops, Brittany following suit.</p><p>"Did you just say date?"</p><p>"Yeah. I promise to make it ridiculously romantic," Brittany sing-songs. "Like, you'll be vomiting Cupid's arrows."</p><p>Santana fights it. Truly she does. But her rage is a muscle stronger than her ability to contain it. And it should be, given all the reps.</p><p>She spins around, erupts, "fucking cut all the God damn dykey shit! I don't wanna hear it!"</p><p>"Didn't we already discuss that we shouldn't use those words for people? They're hurtful to whole communities, and –"</p><p>"I know, that's why I say them."</p><p>"Wait, you say them 'cause we discussed that you shouldn't, or because they're hurtful to whole communities?"</p><p>"Both."</p><p>"Well that's mean and twisted. There's a history of rape, murder, and discrimination behind those words. A buttload of pain. Maybe you should look it up."</p><p>"You wanna know what's twisted, <em>Britt-Britt</em>? You tryna take me out after you fucked my boyfriend. I mean, what the fuck kinda inbred <em>gotta-catch-'em-all</em> shit is that?"</p><p>"As far as I know, none of us are related."</p><p>"It's still weird."</p><p>"Not really."</p><p>"<em>You're</em> weird."</p><p>"You're entitled to your opinion but I respectfully disagree."</p><p>"Yeah? And<em> I</em> only take cock! <em>Very</em> disrespectfully. How 'bout that?"</p><p>"Well, if cock is your getdown, I have a few of those at home in my drawer."</p><p>
  <em>Me too. And?</em>
</p><p>Santana rids herself of the stupid knee-jerk thought, reminds herself that she's here with a set goal.</p><p>To leave this infuriating lap-licker somewhere dying in a puddle of her own blood.</p><p>"Guess what?"</p><p>"You're gonna apologize for saying dyke?"</p><p>"Fuck no. I still have questions about you and Noah. So we're gonna sit on a park bench somewhere and talk. Then we're <em>not</em>," Santana stresses the tee, "gonna send gifts, talk, or see each other again. That clear?"</p><p>"We can talk, sure. I'll tell you whatever you wanna know. And... if you really want this to be the last time we see each other then... I guess I can... try to stay away."</p><p>"Try," Santana echoes with a quiet sinister chuckle. She abruptly deadpans. "If you show up again, in any form, you're done. We understood?"</p><p>"Well, I don't wanna make you feel harassed or anything like that. 'Cause like, if I was a dude that'd be super creepy and threatening right? I wanna make you smile and laugh, and feel appreciated, but if you don't want me around, I'm just gonna make you mad. I don't want that. I want you to be happy."</p><p>"Good, you're getting it. Now follow me."</p><p>Brittany follows.</p><p>She follows Santana for half a block, allowing herself to be led down an alleyway, where the latina then stops, announcing, "destination reached."</p><p>"But Santana, this isn't a park."</p><p>"You sure? There's a swing set right there."</p><p>Brittany's certain this isn't a park – that it's a dark narrow alleyway away form the bustle of the city. But she politely looks around for the claimed swing set anyway.</p><p>"Wait, you seriously don't see the swing set?" Santana gaslights, her poker face world-class.</p><p>Brittany glances around again, just to be sure. Comes up with, "is, is this a joke?"</p><p>A mean cackle that takes Brittany back to her high school days flutters from Santana's throat.</p><p>"What's funny?"</p><p>The cackle stops sharp, and suddenly Santana's hand's around her throat, driving her backwards.</p><p>Her back thuds the wall, the duffel bag strap stuttering down her arm until the bag hits the pavement.</p><p>"You're what's funny, Britt-Britt," Santana whispers inches from her face. "Specifically this," she adds, dislodging the gun and pressing its eye to Brittany's stomach.</p><p>She feels the flesh tense, every muscle twitch, every breath, traveling down the gun and into her hand.</p><p>Santana likes the sensation. It makes her feel in control.</p><p>"Feel free to scream. Nobody comes to these parts, and nobody's gonna hear me blow your stomach out through your back."</p><p>Brittany fidgets but doesn't say anything.</p><p>"Any last words? I know you have some line you wanna say that you've practiced in the mirror. Uncork it."</p><p>Santana waits for it. For something. <em>Anything</em>. But Brittany just stares at her, having made no attempts to shake the hand around her neck <em>or</em> escape.</p><p>"Talk!" Santana hisses, because for all the shit Brittany makes her feel, the bitch is <em>gonna</em> talk, and her voice is <em>gonna</em> tremble. "Now!"</p><p>"Does this mean you didn't like the necklace, 'cause I can get you another one if –"</p><p>"Oh, you think I'm playin'?" Santana releases Brittany's neck to grab the chain around her own, ripping it loose without breaking eye contact. "How about I blow your guts into your nose with a little help from Beretta here? Show you who's playin'."</p><p>"Santana, it's already that time of month," Brittany whines. "I really don't wanna have to deal with any more blood."</p><p>There's nothing to it that indicates the fear Santana's ears crave.</p><p>If anything Brittany just sounds inconvenienced, and Santana's never been more thrown.</p><p>So she resorts to what she knows, snatches Brittany's throat again and squeezes just enough to make her breathing uncomfortable.</p><p>"Any. Last. Words?" she reiterates, digging the gun in harder with each syllable.</p><p>Brittany looks up at the sky. "I <em>would</em> see you in five, Lord Tubbington, but I'm really happy with my life at the moment. I'm sorry."</p><p>Santana frowns, following her skyward gaze.</p><p>All she sees is blue afternoon sky.</p><p>"Seriously, who in the <em>fuck</em> are you talking to?"</p><p>It happens like a thumb to the eye, the way Brittany's hand clamps the bend of Santans's wrist and cranks upwards, the other hand cranking the gun down at a diagonal angle away from her body.</p><p>There's a split second delay before intense pain tears an agonized cry from Santana's throat.</p><p>Trembling, she stares at the hand the blade-like ache is radiating from, sees that the finger she'd placed on the trigger is caught in the trigger cage at an unforgiving angle.</p><p>The sight does something to her, and the pain feeds on it, intensifying.</p><p>"Shhhit!" she hisses around a deep grimace, her frame stiff, like to move is to die.</p><p>Still clasping the weapon between their bodies, Brittany uses her chest and shoulders to gently push Santana back into the opposite wall.</p><p>Despite the pained groan that comes with it, Brittany presses into her, giving the gun a dislodging tug.</p><p>She flicks her wrist and the weapon smacks the concrete some distance away, but neither hears it beneath Santana's gruff, "get the fuck off of me!"</p><p>Their faces are close, the only noise their quickened breaths.</p><p>"Are you okay?" Brittany suddenly whispers, backing up an inch to wrap gentle hands around Santana's swollen one.</p><p>The smaller woman feels every bit her size as she rests her head back on the wall, eyes squeezed shut in wince.</p><p>"Hey, are you oka –"</p><p>"Shut the fuck up!" Santana grunts through caged teeth. "I'm not fucking deaf!"</p><p>"Well you weren't saying anything, I was worried," Brittany states softly.</p><p>Santana's eases her eyes open, her dark glossy irises meeting the gentlest sapphire blue she's ever known.</p><p>For a moment, the pain, the adrenaline, the shallow breaths. They all mute. And the only thing that exists is the tender look Brittany's giving her; the way she's cradling her hand as if rescuing a bird.</p><p>Her low feathered voice.</p><p>"I'm really sorry. I had to –"</p><p>Santana leaps at her, swallowing the sentence in a hard kiss that's all tongue and teeth. She snatches a greedy handful of Brittany's bun, tugging the blonde into her with a whiny moan.</p><p>When Brittany hears <em>that</em>, the consumed want characterizing it, she consciously reacts, pulling away to press slow sloppy kisses to Santana's neck and jawline.</p><p>The latina's eyelids flutter, a hot shudder twitching her body.</p><p>Forbidden.</p><p>So forbidden.</p><p>The pain seeps back in, bringing with it the reality of what's actually happening.</p><p>The anger.</p><p>The shame.</p><p>She shoves Brittany with all the force she can get behind her forearm. "Don't fucking touch me, you dyke. I'm nothing like you!" she attempts to roar, but it just comes out a teary whimper.</p><p>She doesn't make eye contact. Can't.</p><p>She can't.</p><p>Brittany lifts a tentative foot to step forward. "Santana –"</p><p>"No! Stay the fuck back!" Santana raises her voice, vigorously rubs Brittany's taste off of her lips.</p><p>Well, tries to.</p><p>"Just…" She briefly closes her eyes and sniffs, whispering a desperate, "stay the hell away from me."</p><hr/>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Santana's fresh out of the shower, and the painkillers are finally kicking in.</p><p>She <em>should</em> feel better.</p><p>Instead she's halfway through a Kleenex box, mopping away tears.</p><p>A hiccup jolts her as she sits up in bed, and with the switch in position, her nose starts to dribble. She wipes it and tosses the limp tissue, which hits the carpet inches from the trashcan.</p><p>Just like all the others.</p><p>"Ugh, it's way too quiet in here," she grumbles, blindly reaching sideways to pat down the bedside cabinet. Her fingers fumble over hair clips and half-empty perfume bottles – everything <em>but</em> what she's looking for. "Where the hell did I put the TV remote?"</p><p>There's a dull rumble just then.</p><p>Searching fingers immediately still.</p><p>"Great, the last thing I need is some nosy visitor."</p><p>Mr Kazenski springs to mind. Santana hopes someone takes her out before she reaches <em>that</em> level of old and nosy.</p><p>Careful about moving her hand, she slips out of bed. Heads to the bedroom door and listens.</p><p>The low rumble returns, this time more insistent.</p><p>She quickly rubs her eyes dry and sniffs away the tear-induced mucus. The closet mirror shows her she's presentable enough. That all she needs is a decent poker face.</p><p>The front door's an inch ajar when blonde hair flowing over denim lapels fills Santana's field of vision.</p><p>Right away she knows who's there, tries to shut the door. But Brittany wedges her sneaker in the gap, slipping her arm inside, an ice pack dangling from its fingers.</p><p>Santana slaps it away, pushing the door with all her might, which isn't much given she can only use one hand.</p><p>"Fuck!"</p><p>She spins, digging her toes into the carpet and driving back. But Brittany's deceptively strong, and the door just rattles back and forth, caught in a stalemate between forces.</p><p>At a loss, she squeezes her eyes shut, like if she stays that way long enough, the nightmare will end.</p><p>"I'm not here for more sweet lady kisses."</p><p>
  <em>Aaaand it gets worse.</em>
</p><p>"I thought I told you to <em>stay</em> the hell <em>away</em> from me?"</p><p>"I just wanna know you're okay. Is your hand okay? I mean, I totally tried not to break it when I followed through on the disarm, but... you looked like you were in tons of pain. Also, have you been crying?"</p><p>No response.</p><p>"I wasn't sure if you had anything to keep the swelling down, so I picked up an ice pack and some painkillers."</p><p>No response.</p><p>Brittany sighs, pressing her palm to the door. "Santana, are you okay?"</p><p>"You have ten seconds to get your beastly foot up outta my doorway, or I'ma make a phone call, and you're not gonna make it home tonight. How 'bout that?"</p><p>"Wait, who're you gonna call? Ghostbusters? Because someone said I was paler than a ghost today, and I've kinda been worried that they're coming for me, even though I'm not a ghost. I think I need more sun."</p><p>"One."</p><p>"Open the door so I can take a look at your hand."</p><p>"Two."</p><p>"Can you move your fingers at all?"</p><p>"<em>Three</em> – and quit thinking about what I'm doing with my fingers."</p><p>Brittany leans her forehead into the door with a soft thud, slides her palm down the surface. "It's okay you know – to think women are hot. We totally are. We're soft, and pretty, and the sex is fire. It's okay if you like women. I like –"</p><p>Santana can't tug the door open fast enough.</p><p>She yanks Brittany inside by the lapel, pokes her head around the door frame to make sure none of her neighbours are around.</p><p>"What are you looking for?"</p><p>Santana whirls around, back-bumping the door shut. "Jesus fucking Christ! Keep that <em>hole</em>," she emphasizes, slinging her hand at Brittany's mouth, "zipped! If anyone heard you, your lips are getting sewn!"</p><p>"What are you so afraid of, Santana? You could be so awesome if you just embraced all the awesomeness that you are."</p><p>"You think I'm falling for that? You just wanna get your perverted hands in my pants, you leather-tongued dyke. It's freaking disgusting!"</p><p>"But... you're the one who kissed me," Brittany says, frowning like she's missing something here.</p><p>Santana rolls her eyes at the cruel reminder, glances off and folds her arms.</p><p>"Come here, let me see your hand."</p><p>"No, don't come any closer," Santana warns, slipping away from the door to put some distance between them.</p><p>Her hasty backward gait sees her bump into the sofa, and she tumbles over the armrest, the cushions sagging under her weight.</p><p>She quickly rights herself, tucks wild hair strands behind her ear. "You need to leave."</p><p>Brittany does the opposite, retrieves the ice pack from the floor instead. She shakes it at Santana, who flinches at the sudden movement. "Are you gonna let me see your hand?"</p><p>"No. So it's time for you to <em>leave</em>."</p><p>Brittany approaches the sofa, sinks into it a cushion away from Santana, and when it isn't met with any backlash, she gently scoots towards her. "Can I see your hand?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>"Please?"</p><p>"Fuck you, you're not getting my hand."</p><p>"Are you scared I'm gonna saw it off and sell it to our corrupt government?"</p><p>Santana scoffs, because she thinks she'd prefer <em>that</em> over the things she's imagining. "You're way too close after I told you not to come any closer. It's like you enjoy making me mad. I swear, it is <em><strong>so</strong></em> on once I heal up. I'm not stopping 'til I get you."</p><p>"And I'm not stopping until I get you."</p><p>"Did you just threaten me on some cat-and-mouse <em>Killing Eve</em> shit?"</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"Lemme make this clear: you'll never <em>get</em> me. Ever. I'm ungettable. But keep talking smack. Makes things more fun."</p><p>"You know, technically I feel like I already have you. But you're just not up to speed yet."</p><p>"Oh yeah? Well nobody cares how boyfriend-stealing sluts feel! It's <em>time</em> to <em>leave</em>!"</p><p>"What are you so afraid of? 'Cause you don't have to be afraid of me. I'm mostly gentle. A gentlewoman," Brittany laughs, pleased with the quip. "And I promise to be gentle with your hand."</p><p>As if to demonstrate, she reaches for the limb with the softness of a feather. "Lemme know if I'm hurting you."</p><p>"You're hurting me."</p><p>"I'm barely touching you yet, but I can be softer." Brittany adjusts her grip. "Better?"</p><p>"It'll be better once you're gone and no longer touching me. This is harassment." Santana pauses, then dips her neck into, "<em>sexual</em> harassment."</p><p>"Sorta. But you tracked me down near the studio, took me for a walk, and pulled a gun on me. So I win I guess."</p><p>Santana isn't looking at her. Won't, it seems. But Brittany doesn't mind, because Santana's letting her inspect her hand.</p><p>"You know," she whispers, "it doesn't look that bad. Someone's a drama queen," she sings quietly, pressing the ice pack to the swollen flesh and slowly massaging it around. "Remind me to take the painkillers out of my pocket at some point, otherwise I'll probably forget."</p><p>Santana takes to watching her in a surreal daze. She watches the care Brittany takes moving the ice pack around her knuckles, the peaceful smile marking her lips as she does so. Like this is where she wants to be. Here, doing this.</p><p>Baffled is an understatement.</p><p>"What the fuck is the matter with you? Just hours ago I was ready to put you down. If you hadn't destroyed my hand, you'd still be lying in that alleyway. Yet here you are, with painkillers and a freakin' ice pack."</p><p>"Well, you were never really gonna shoot me," Brittany says with a shrug. "One: guns are my friends; I shoot at the range once a week. Two: I attended this awesome gun disarming class at Master Kinjo Dojo's gym last year. And three: if you really wanted to setup a reunion between Lord Tubbington and I, you would've just pulled the trigger. But you didn't."</p><p>"But..." Santana blinks, frowning. "I was <em><strong>going</strong></em> to."</p><p>"Sure you were."</p><p>Santana balls her good hand. "I <em>was</em>! And if you didn't think so, you wouldn't have disarmed me. So why the fuck do you care whether you broke my hand?"</p><p>Brittany doesn't say anything to that, just adjusts the ice pack between tan fingers.</p><p>Santana hisses as it brushes a particularly tender spot, Brittany whispering, "sorry."</p><p>The moment feels much too intimate, so – pain be damned – Santana jerks her hand away, settling her solemn stare straight ahead. "You need to go. Now."</p><p>"Okay," Brittany agrees. "Where do you want me to put the ice pack?"</p><p>"Take it with you."</p><p>"But I bought it for you."</p><p>"You also bought me that stupid necklace, and look where that ended up."</p><p>"It's at home. I'm gonna get it fixed for when you decide you want it back."</p><p>Santana forces herself to look Brittany in the eye, because she <em>has</em> to know if this woman is serious.</p><p>Turns out: not only is she serious. She's serious enough that her feelings are hurt.</p><p>Hurt that her gift, and the sentiments behind it, were trashed in such a way.</p><p>"I'll just leave this here," Brittany says, placing the ice pack on the sofa cushion. She suddenly remembers the painkillers, plucks the box from her breast pocket. "Don't take these with alcohol," she advises, sitting the box atop the ice pack. "If you do, you'll turn into a deck of playing cards. It's a scientific fact. No wait, I think it's Salvia Divinorum that turns you into playing cards, and only a small part of you knows you're not supposed to be a deck of playing cards, but the rest of you thinks it's normal and that you'll be that way forever. Buurghhh; terrifying."</p><p>Santana bobs her head to the right. "Door's that way. Use it, and don't ever let me see you anywhere near this place again. I don't wanna know you exist, got it?"</p><p>"But, you already know I exist."</p><p>Santana blows out a long breath.</p><p>She's exhausted.</p><p>Brittany's <em>the</em> most exhausting person she's ever met.</p><p>"Leave," she reiterates. It lacks conviction and kick, but it's all she can manage.</p><p>"Okay," Brittany says, standing up. "Bye Santana."</p><p>Once alone, Santana slides down the door until her butt hits the floor. She shrinks into her shoulders, drawing her knees to her chest as she watches fresh tears dot the carpet.</p><hr/><p>"Artie?"</p><p>"Hm?"</p><p>"How much longer are you gonna be using the laptop?"</p><p>Artie rolls his eyes. "I already told you, Britt; I have something important to type up. Surely you cyber stalking Santana can wait."</p><p>"I don't know what time Santa's leaving the mall, and I wanna transfer those Facebook pictures of Santana to my phone, so I can show him what I want for Christmas."</p><p>"You have a smartphone. Download them on that. Better yet, do your cyber stalking on that too."</p><p>"It's glitching out. I think it's 'cause I dropped it in the toilet again. Please can I use the laptop? I'll be two seconds, I promise."</p><p>Artie's ballooned cheeks slowly deflate with a sigh, and he snaps the laptop lid shut with moderate force.</p><p>"Artie, what's wrong?" Brittany groans. "You've been grouchy with me for days. I feel like I'm walking on sea shells."</p><p>"It's egg shells, Britt. You feel like you're walking on egg shells. And <em>you've</em> been grouchy with <em>me</em> since I said the 's' word."</p><p>"Okay but –"</p><p>"Not only that, but <em>against</em> my advice, you saw Santana and got a gun pulled on you. I could be picking out a tie for your funeral right now. None of this is okay."</p><p>"But I didn't go to Santana. She came to me."</p><p>"Yeah, after you poked the bear with that necklace! And now you want Santa to deliver her for Christmas. This is crazy Brittany."</p><p>"She likes me back."</p><p>"Oh really? How could you tell?"</p><p>"She kissed me. Like... <em>super</em> hard."</p><p>Artie looks off, chuckling at the lunacy of it all, because what else is there to do at this point?</p><p>"It felt like she couldn't pull me close enough, or kiss me hard enough. Making up for lost time, or finally scratching an itch. And the sound she made," Brittany says, still awed by its rawness. "She totally likes me too, Artie. She's just scared. All of this is like, new to her."</p><p>"That doesn't make this better, Brittany. It makes it worse. Worse because she likes you and still pulled a gun on you. What if next time she kisses you, she's so disgusted with herself she hurts you?"</p><p>"She won't."</p><p>"You don't know that."</p><p>"Artie, I know this is hard. And like, I feel bad about that 'cause obviously I love you, and I don't want you to worry."</p><p>"But?"</p><p>"But I need to see what happens with Santana."</p><p>Artie's chest rises and falls with a large breath. He nods, reluctant but accepting. "Okay. Then there's nothing more to say on it."</p><p>"That's not true. There's tons more to say on it. But we're just not gonna, am I right?"</p><p>"I guess you are."</p><p>"I'm sorry I wheeled you to your room. That was wrong."</p><p>Artie softens. "Brittany, I know you had a crappy time in high school with all the bullying – people using that word to cut you down. But I'm not them. I love you, which is why I got scared that you weren't taking your safety as seriously as I was."</p><p>Brittany shrugs, though her eyes are contrite. "I'll try not to get so upset next time you drop the S-bomb. If I get like that again, I give you permission to put me in time-out."</p><p>Artie smiles. "There won't be a next time. Anyway, I wasn't calling <em>you</em> stupid. I was advising against making a stupid choice, <em>because</em> I know you're smarter than that. Hell, half the time you're the smartest person I know."</p><p>"Really?"</p><p>"Uh, <em>yeah</em>. Easily."</p><p>Brittany smiles at her lap, cheeks tinged pink. "Thanks Artie."</p><p>"Don't mention it."</p><p>"Okay, I won't. Can I use the laptop to get those pics of Santana now? It seems like you're done with it."</p><p>Artie's smile fades.</p><p>"Something else is wrong," Brittany observes. "What is it?"</p><p>"Maybe I'm bored of hearing about Santana. She's all you talk about, and it's getting wearisome."</p><p>"But –"</p><p>"I'm not saying this to upset you, Britt. I just don't want to hear about her anymore."</p><p>"Why does it bother you so much? I talk about unicorns, like, all the time, and you never get mad."</p><p>"Because she doesn't deserves you. There's bad guys and there's good guys, Britt. Santana's a bad guy. I guess it's just annoying," he says, glancing his sad reflection in the glass table, "that the good guy always finishes last."</p><hr/><p>They're fooling around in a fitting room cubicle.</p><p>It feels like they're inside a Victoria's Secret store, but Santana doesn't know. Not for certain.</p><p>It's more an impression.</p><p>Wherever they are, she doesn't care, because Brittany's just slipped two fingers inside of her, and now she's working her neck too, lavishing lewd slurping kisses down it that are bound to alert the ears of the clerk outside.</p><p>"Fuck," she rasps at Brittany's ear, hugging her closer. "Don't stop."</p><p>"Want me to go deeper?"</p><p>"Shh, they'll hear," Santana mumbles through the blind pleasure of those fingers drumming her g-spot.</p><p>They sink deeper, curling, and it's a little painful, but she's so aroused it <em><strong>all</strong></em> feels good.</p><p>Too good.</p><p>"Fuck, I think I'm – shit, I'm gonna come," Santana pants, brow furrowed.</p><p>Mouth open.</p><p>Brittany seizes it with her own, the kiss filthy and carnal.</p><p>Santana suddenly springs up, the mattress beneath her bouncing a little. She yawns her famous hippo yawn. The one all of her ex-boyfriends had an opinion on.</p><p><em>Assholes</em>.</p><p>She reflects on her sleep, feeling like there's something she's missing.</p><p>It's then that she downloads the reality she's just awoken from. But it's fast slipping away.</p><p>Everything except Brittany.</p><p><em>And</em> the fact that she's all swollen and slippery downstairs.</p><p>Santana deadpans. "Great. So I'm not even safe from this bitch in my dreams now? Ugh," she grunts, disgusted, "how am I wet for this clown?"</p><p>She's not mad at <strong><em>all</em></strong> when her cell phone rings, answers it with an eager, "hello?"</p><p>"How would you like to do your Uncle Alsarvio a favor, earn yourself five stacks in the process?"</p><p>A slow smirk tugs Santana's lips, because if anyone can make her feel normal after that dream, it's, "Restless, you beat-up old Harley, is that you?"</p><p>"One and only."</p><p>Santana smiles, recalling the origins of his nickname.</p><p>"<em>So we called him Restless, 'cause he's always gotta be doin' somethin'. Whether that's bakin' a cake or kickin' your fuckin' teeth out, he's not fussed</em>."</p><p>Santana likes that about him – that he's this fearless man's man who's game for whatever.</p><p>"What's the temperature, princess? You in?" he asks.</p><p>"Wait, first of all, why isn't my uncle calling me himself? And second of all, why're you only hollerin' when Unc needs a favor?"</p><p>Restless chuckles that gruff chuckle he's known and feared for. "We both keep busy. And I called it a favor, but it's not really a favor if you're getting five stacks on completion. That's a job."</p><p>Santana raises a skeptical brow, hums, "mmhmm. So what's this favor entail?"</p><p>"Well," he begins, all business, "there's this broad. Alicia Ottelenghi. She was in on a shipment raid, but when the feds caught up to her she sang like a bird. Now Ronnie's locked up, and he's gonna rot unless she vanishes or pulls out of testimony."</p><p>"You want missing teeth? Limb extraction? Soul removal services at your disposal."</p><p>"Soul removal services," Restless repeats, amused. "That's cute. I like it."</p><p>"Well, <em>obviously</em>."</p><p>"<em>Obviously</em>," he teases.</p><p>"Obviously. Quit being cute and hit me with the job, <em>Sean</em>."</p><p>Restless laughs heartily, but keeps to his purpose. "'Kay so, we found out Alicia hits your gym two days a week. Your Unc wants you to teach her a lesson. You know, wish her Merry Xmas with those talented fists of yours. How's she gonna sing if you take her jaw off its hinges? Just make sure she gets the right message – that she's either gonna keep her mouth shut, or disappear."</p><p>Santana looks to the bandage wrapped around her hand.</p><p>She's had to do everything with her left hand this past week – even simple things. Like working a toothbrush around her mouth, and buttoning shirts. Polishing's been a bitch too.</p><p>Then there's those lacklustre orgasms, which just aren't as electrifying when your hand won't follow instructions.</p><p>She tells herself her dissatisfaction is the reason she woke up wet today.</p><p>"You there princess?"</p><p>"Where else would I be?"</p><p>"I dunno, you went quiet on me."</p><p>"I would love to dropkick Alicia Otter's-Pussy through a high-rise window. But I hurt my hand. Shut it in the door like an idiot. It's still a little stiff, you know?" Santana says. "I mean, I've popped the gym bag with it here and there, but it's not up to doing the damage you guys are looking for. Tell Unc I'm sorry?"</p><p>"No troubles. I'll get Quinn on it. We just thought we'd ask you first, since we knew you'd do the job with that little extra pop." That gruff chuckle sounds again. "I still have nightmares about the night of Clay's sixtieth birthday bash. You beat the stuffin' outta that broad who spilled drink on you. Man, she looked like Jason from Friday the Thirteenth when you got through with her."</p><p>"Stupid bitch deserved it. Drunk or not, look where the fuck you're going, otherwise <em>I'm</em> gonna beat you sober. For real, I don't know who's raising these people."</p><p>"We miss your humor. You gotta come around more."</p><p>"Maybe I'll slide through next week. Tell Unc good luck with Otter's-Pussy."</p><p>"Sure princess."</p><p>"And don't let the next time you bell be because you want a favor, asshole."</p><p>"You know how it is, Satan. The wife gets pissy when I call beautiful women for anything other than business."</p><p>"Hundred-percent of the time, you can't keep your eyes off me. So I get it. But you and I are <em>never</em> fucking, so what risk is a phone call?"</p><p>"Feisty."</p><p>"You love every second."</p><p>"That's what you think."</p><p>"Oh come on," Santana scoffs. "You know you'd be all up on this if I let you. Let's not even play."</p><p>"Shh!" he hisses playfully. "That's our little secret."</p><p>"Pft, everybody knows. Including your darling Anita. It's why she's always in hospital getting work done – Oprah Winfrey today, and Meryl Streep tomorrow."</p><p>"You mean like how everybody knows you secretly love pussy?"</p><p>"What did you just say? 'Cause I think you just glitched in the matrix."</p><p>"Come on Satan. Who do you think you're foolin'? You flirt with me to keep up appearances, and I flirt back 'cause you're a hot young thing and I'm pushing forty with a beer belly. The fantasy's nice. But <em>you</em> know, and <em>I</em> know: I'm never gonna get to pound that sweet pussy, and you're never gonna want this meat."</p><p>"Fuck you."</p><p>"Hey, don't get personal with me and I won't get personal with you. Alright? That's my wife."</p><p>"I don't give a rat's ass. I'm not gay, got it fuck face? I'm <em>not</em>!"</p><p>"I didn't say you were gay. I said you secretly love pussy."</p><p>"Oh, you wanna play semantics puto? Say it again. I dare you, mother fucker! I dare your saggy tomato-looking ass to say that dumb shit to me again!"</p><p>The small intake of breath indicates Restless is about to speak, but Santana hardballs her phone into the opposite wall, watching it explode into pieces her eyes aren't quick enough to track.</p><p>"I'm not gay. <em>Not</em>."</p><hr/><p>Though Brittany doesn't need to use the step-up stool, she does so anyway, hoisting herself up onto the obese man's lap.</p><p>The line of kids queuing at the Christmas display giggle, pointing at the odd scene.</p><p>An adult woman sitting on Santa Clause.</p><p>A little girl reaches up and squeezes Kurt's thumb.</p><p>He reluctantly comes out from behind the motorcycle brochure he has no interest in, glances the girl's mother before peering down into amused brown orbs.</p><p>She grins. "Your friend's funny."</p><p>"Friend?" He turns his head left to right. "What friend?"</p><p>"The lady on Santa's lap."</p><p>"Oh, you think I know her?" He gives an over the top chuckle, waves it off. "No, I don't." He shakes his head. "I don't... know her."</p><p>"We all saw you walk in with her. We know she's with you," the girl's mother pipes up, something stern about her gaze. "Don't ever lie to my kid."</p><p>Kurt's face alternates between a disturbed frown and a nervous grin."<em>Okay then</em>," he drawls through a plastic grin, shuffling away from the woman and her demon child.</p><p>He ends up to side of Santa's throne. "Hurry up and place your order, Brittany," he whispers.</p><p>"Hold on a second," she says, caught up with finding the pics she saved to her phone.</p><p>"Don't lie to her kid," Kurt huffs to himself, crossing his arms. "Taking your child to see a bear in a Santa suit <em>is</em> lying to your kid."</p><p>"Ho, ho, ho!" Santa pointedly chants, shooting Kurt death with his beady eyes. "I'm three-hundred-and-five pounds, son. Keep running your mouth and see what type of bear I'll be."</p><p>"Sorry," Kurt squeaks, disappearing back behind the brochure.</p><p>"Found one!" Brittany announces. She thrusts her phone into Santa's view. "Her name's Santana, and she's the only gift I want this year."</p><p>Santa takes the photo in, then returns his eyes to Brittany. "You realize I'm just some guy dressed up as Santa Clause, right lady?" He pulls his long white beard and lets it snap back to his chin.</p><p>Brittany scoffs. "How do you know you aren't the real Santa Clause?"</p><p>"Is this a joke?"</p><p>Brittany smirks. "Maybe."</p><p>"I'm black. Santa Clause ain't black."</p><p>"But the real Santa Clause could be. Jesus wasn't white, but all we ever see is white Jesus."</p><p>"Look man, I ain't Santa. I only took this gig so I could pay my rent. If there's a Santa out there, he sure as hell ain't me."</p><p>"Oh my God," Kurt mouths into the leaflet, shaking his head.</p><p>He puts a hand to Brittany's shoulder. "I think we should go now. We still need outfits for Friday night."</p><p>"Okay."</p><p>Brittany hops off of Santa's lap. She pats his knee, shooting him a playful squint. "Take care of yourself, Santa, and remember: I was good this year." She winks.</p><p>"I guess I'll... see what I can do."</p><p>She smiles a blinding smile. "Thanks."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Santana walks in with her head low, bag on her shoulder as she weaves quick steps between tables and chairs.</p><p>"You're late!"</p><p>She halts, lifts her head in the direction of the stern bark. She finds her boss, Barry, stood behind the bar.</p><p>"I'm late?"</p><p>"Yup."</p><p>"Well you're fat and ugly." Santana shrugs. "What's it gonna be? I can keep this up all night."</p><p>The short round man flicks the bar light on, everything suddenly floating in a serene purple neon glow. He drags a cloth over the bar counter, straightens a box of straws, and gazes his employee something stern. "You gotta stop being late. Setup is your job, not mine."</p><p>"And you gotta stop being fat and ugly. How 'bout that?"</p><p>"If you're showing up like this, you can <em>turn</em>," he stresses, twirling his fingers in the air, "right back around and go home. Customers just wanna have fun. They don't wanna have to deal with whatever bullshit you've got going on. Understand?"</p><p>Santana slings her wrist out, gives her watch a begrudged glance. "See? Just ten minutes late. Get off my dick."</p><p>Barry rolls his eyes and motions a thumb over his bulky shoulder. "Go put your stuff in the back, and throw your hair up. Doors open in fifteen."</p><p>"Go throw <em>your</em> hair up, <em>Barry</em> – whoops, you don't have any. Bald, fat, <em>and</em> ugly," she taunts, blowing a kiss as she walks by.</p><p>"Yeah yeah, you little midget," he counters somewhat affectionately. "And bring more glasses out here, or I'll fire your little ass."</p><p>"Suck my dick," he hears as she disappears into the back.</p><p>He smirks, flipping the switch for the secondary bar light. "Santana Lopez. Can't do with her, can't do without her."</p><p>"On pre-game, okay guys? One. Two. <em>Pre-game</em>!"</p><p>In a Mexican wave of sorts, Brittany, Kurt, and Blaine down their shots.</p><p>It takes a moment for the kick to register, but they all grimace when it does, flailing their hands and drumming their feet.</p><p>"Wow. That's..." Blaine coughs. "Strong."</p><p>Kurt runs a soothing hand down his boyfriend's back, but not without wretching a few coughs of his own. "Are you – ahem! – okay honey?"</p><p>"I will be. I think."</p><p>"Sweet start with a demonic finish. It's an F from me."</p><p>Blaine clears his throat a few times, blinks away the moisture gleaming at the corners of his eyes. "More like an F-minus. Are you okay?"</p><p>"I will be, I think," Kurt says. He turns his head to see whether Brittany's still alive.</p><p>"Bottoms up!" she announces, shaking two more shots at them.</p><p>Kurt gulps.</p><p>Blaine blinks.</p><p>Brittany giggles, puts the shots on the table. She waves her horrified friends off. "I'm just screwing with you guys."</p><p>"Thank God for that," Kurt sighs, relieved. "Pretty sure more of this rum would lead to an ER trip."</p><p>Brittany catches a cough in her elbow, clears her throat. "Agreed. Totally tastes like the cure for one thing, and the cause of another."</p><p>"Hey, I like that," Blaine muses.</p><p>"Thanks."</p><p>With Slum Village's <em>Fall in Love</em> floating out of the stereo, Artie rolls into the lounge undetected.</p><p>He parks sharp.</p><p>"Can you guys keep it down? I have a blizzard of a headache, and your pre-club session isn't helping!"</p><p>Brittany pushes pause on the mini remote, the chilled song ceasing. "Sorry Artie. We'll keep it down."</p><p>"Yeah, sorry Artie," Blaine offers.</p><p>When Kurt's silence engulfs the room, Blaine nudges him.</p><p>It prompts a non-committal, "yeah, sorry."</p><p>Artie spins and wheels himself back down the hallway, batting down a Christmas decoration as he goes.</p><p>Once the bedroom door slams, Kurt pounces. "I don't know how you cope with Artie's moods, Britt."</p><p>"He's mad at me for talking about Santana."</p><p>Blaine and Kurt share a knowing look.</p><p>"What?" Brittany asks.</p><p>The two men shake their heads, chorusing, "nothing."</p><p>"I'm worried about him. We talked and made up, but now he's sad all the time, and he's having headaches. Maybe I should take him to a head doctor."</p><p>Kurt snickers, earning himself another nudge from his boyfriend.</p><p>"I mean, he's gonna have to get used to Santana eventually right? Especially since I plan on inviting her for movie nights. I guess I could try to keep her in my room, but what if she needs to pee and Artie's in the hallway, just waiting to roll over her foot?"</p><p>"If you were into watersports, she wouldn't need to leave the room to pee," Kurt quips with a juvenile chuckle.</p><p>"Britt," Blaine interjects, because <em>someone</em> needs to be the adult here. "None of us particularly like Santana given what you've told us. In fact, the only reason Kurt and I are going to this bar with you, is because she works there. We don't want you alone with her. And not to make you feel ganged-up on, but we'll feel similar to Artie should you and Santana develop into something. It's gonna take time for us to trust her with you, or even warm to her. But as of right now? It's all we can do to stop ourselves calling the cops."</p><p>"I thought you were gonna say: not to make you feel gangbanged. I definitely wouldn't wanna feel like that. They always look super sad after, and then I can't finish."</p><p>Kurt hums to himself, wonders if it makes him a shitty person that it's the pornstar's post-gangbang shame that gets him off.</p><p>"Regardless, Britt, Kurt and I are here for you whenever you want to talk about Santana."</p><p>"Aww. You guys are total sweethearts. Thanks."</p><p>"Well, it's not entirely selfless," Blaine admits. "We partly just wanna be informed. Take tonight. If you hadn't told us you'd found Santana's work address online, and that you were planning on going there, we wouldn't have known to tag along for safety."</p><p>Brittany bobs her head into a childlike nod, and Blaine smiles, endeared.</p><p>"So like, I know you're all worried I'm gonna get murdered, but she's not gonna murder me. She likes me."</p><p>"Of course she does, you're easy to like," Kurt says. "But why does she like you? Is it the beautiful blinding light that is Brittany S Pierce that she likes? Or does she just think you're hot and hate herself for it? Two very different things."</p><p>Curling some hair behind her ear, Brittany considers the question.</p><p>Takes so long Kurt's forced to point out, "see? You aren't sure. If she likes you, we can't conflate that with safety."</p><p>"He's right," Blaine says.</p><p>"I'm always right."</p><p>"I'm Brittany."</p><p>He snatches her arm and jerks her away from the bar, but she resists. Rips her arm free and mouths hostile profanities in his face.</p><p>It's the third time Santana's seen him bothering the woman.</p><p>She slides a customer their drink, grabs the bat behind the bar, and breezes by her colleagues towards the troublesome couple.</p><p>"Hey!" she yells shrill enough to cut through the thudding music.</p><p>The meathead unhands the woman and turns around, Santana pointing the bat between his eyes.</p><p>"Take your drunk, domestic-violence-poster-boy ass home. Or you're going to the hospital. Your choice." She shrugs.</p><p>"I wasn't doing anything!" he shouts. "So go save some other hoe, Captain!"</p><p>Santana winds the bat back over her shoulder, milliseconds from caving this mother fucker's head in – when she feels a firm tug from behind.</p><p>"Gimme that!" Barry scolds, grabbing the bat.</p><p>He waves security over, and Santana isn't sure whether they're coming for her or the meathead.</p><p>She shoves Barry's chest, hard enough for him to know there's a fire blazing inside of her. "They better not be coming for me! That asshole's been harassing the same chick all night!"</p><p>"Well then call in <em>security</em>!" Barry reprimands, passing the bat to a worker behind the bar. "That's what they're paid for! Go on, go cool off in the back."</p><p>She rolls her eyes and stomps off, bumping her colleague as she goes.</p><p>"Did you see that?" Carla asks, throwing an incredulous glance after Santana. She steadies the drinks in her hands, the liquid still sloshing from the jolt. "You gotta do something about her. She's out of control."</p><p>Barry's eyebrows knit apologetically. "She's like family. I can't fire her."</p><p>"Well, I don't know, spring for a therapist or something. Anything. The rest of us shouldn't have to work in this environment."</p><p>Santana re-emerges some fifteen minutes later.</p><p>The DJ's spinning punchy house music, and the dance floor reflects it, clusters of bodies gyrating beneath the rhythmic lights.</p><p>A soft nudge tugs her from her reverie, and when she looks to her right she finds Daniel, a couple of used glasses in his hand.</p><p>"Check out that chick's moves," he encourages, pointing at a tall blonde who's body-popping. "She should be on TV dancing like that."</p><p>Santana follows his finger.</p><p>Her face drops.</p><p><em>Brittany</em>.</p><p>She trails a slow glare up at the ceiling. "Seriously, what the fuck did I do to deserve this? Answer me, ass-wipe!"</p><p>If God's home, he's not answering.</p><p>Not that Santana expects him to.</p><p>She watches Brittany wind her hips. Slowly, then fast. Provocative, then playful. Left, right, and in a circle; the blonde's face splitting around a giddy laugh as some guy twirls her by the arm.</p><p>Santana swallows.</p><p>Hard.</p><p>"Isn't she amazing?" Daniel awes, nudging the latina again. "Hot too. Gotta wonder if those moves translate to the bedroom. I mean, damn, that hip control is suggest-<em>ive</em>."</p><p>Santana fixes him with a glare. "She sucks. The guy she's twerking on has better moves, and <em>he</em> sucks too."</p><p>Daniel slings the bar cloth over his shoulder and throws his hand up. "Hey, I'm not tryna argue or anything, San. Just tryna keep things light-hearted."</p><p>"Firstly, don't call me San like we're tight. Secondly, don't kid around with me, like we're tight. You'll lose a ball, and no one's gonna be laughing when you can't have kids, 'cept me. 'K?"</p><p>He gulps, squeaks, "okay."</p><p>"Good."</p><p>"Lemme just..." He nods at the lipstick-smeared glasses he's holding before excusing himself.</p><p>Santana senses the customer before she sees them, pivots to get close enough to hear their order.</p><p>But when she sees it's Brittany, she halts.</p><p>"Hey Santana."</p><p>Santana thrusts her arms folded, narrows the blonde a steely glare.</p><p>But Brittany just pumps a fist, cheering, "<em>score</em>; your hand looks tons better! I was worried you'd starve not being able to open jars, and I wanted to bring takeout, but I didn't know what you liked. Oh, and I was giving you space."</p><p>"This shit? Right here? This is grounds for a restraining order."</p><p>"You're gonna order restraints? What, you mean like online? What kind are you looking for?"</p><p>"<em>Not</em> the kind you and your clit-slurping friends enjoy, you perverted dykopath. I want a judge to sign an order that says <em>you</em> have to stay the hell <em><strong>away</strong></em> from me, or go to jail."</p><p>"Oh. Well I know someone who cosplays a court jester, but I don't know any judges or anything. Sorry I can't help." Brittany drums merry fingers on the bartop, still breathing a little heavy from the dancing. "Can I get an orange juice please? Oh, and a Cosmo? And whatever you're having."</p><p>Santana decides she's not doing this. She's <em>not</em> gonna have this clown smiling in her face all night while she works the bar.</p><p>"Alright, that's it. Where the fuck did Barry put that bat?"</p><p>Brittany rises up off the bar stool, glancing around for this bat Santana seems to covet so much.</p><p>She gives up after a while and resumes her seat. "I don't see any bats – wait, what are you gonna do with a bat? Are you gonna schwang my way, Santana?"</p><p>Santana hesitates, because deciphering whether Brittany's flirting, joking, taunting her, or just tipsy and talking her usual nonsense, is damn near impossible.</p><p>She dismisses the exhausting puzzle and rests her elbows on the bartop, leaning towards the blonde like she means business. "I'm tired of you. Real tired. Tired of seeing your face, tired of hearing your voice, and I'm tired of hearing the stupid shit that comes outta your mouth."</p><p>"Hey, I'm not –"</p><p>"Be quiet!" Santana demands. "Now, I don't know how you knew I worked here, but we're gonna come to an understanding to where you keep the fuck away from me, and I keep the fuck away from you."</p><p>Brittany frowns. "But, you said you'd get me once you healed up – that you wouldn't stop until you got me. Is – I don't get it. Is that still happening? Are we rescheduling, or..? Because now you're saying you don't want us to –"</p><p>"War," Santana cuts in. "If I come after you, it's war. That means I'm coming for your family, your friends, the building you live in, old pairs of shoes, <em>plants</em> – hell, even your pets. You don't want war with me; I <em>will</em> make your life unlivable. So make the smart choice. What's it gonna be?"</p><p>Brittany plucks a cocktail umbrella from an abandoned glass, twirls it between her fingers. "I don't know, 'cause I'm kinda not afraid of you. Like, at all. Not even a little bit."</p><p>"Yeah? Well you should be. Really afraid."</p><p>"I try," Brittany sighs, like it's a drag. "But I just end up thinking you're super adorable, and that you'd be fun to build blanket forts with." Blue eyes flicker up from the cocktail umbrella, latching to Santana's. "Then I hug Mr Fluffbert until I'm dreaming about hugging Mr Fluffbert, <em>dreaming</em> about hugging Mr Fluffbert. Then I don't know where I am anymore."</p><p>"Good, you're used to disorientation. 'Cause if you ever call me adorable again, I'm gonna knock you into the hetero lifestyle God planned for you."</p><p>"Everything okay? Did you order the drinks?" Kurt chirps, slinging his arm around Brittany's shoulder. "Blaine's just using the –" He stops himself, notes the tension between the frowning barmaid and his friend. "Oh," he says, realizing he's now face to face with the woman from the pics Brittany showed him.</p><p>Santana gives the man, or boy – she hasn't decided yet – the once over.</p><p>Concludes, "more fags. Great. Just what this place needs."</p><p>Kurt presses a horrified hand to his chest, gasps, "excuse me?"</p><p>"Do something about it," Santana goads. "Or would you rather I take you out back so you can try on my lipstick?" She puckers her lips at him, mocking – an effeminate limp to her wrist as she twirls to approach a new customer.</p><p>"Well that was unforgivably rude and unnecessary," Kurt complains, looking to see if there's someone he can report her to. "Your crush is a grade-A bitch, Brittany!"</p><p>"Please don't call her that."</p><p>"Really? So she's just <em>fine</em> to call me a fag?"</p><p>"She doesn't mean it. She's at war with herself."</p><p>Kurt looks to the other side of the bar, clocks Santana giving him evils. "Pretty sure that serial killer means it, Britt. Every hateful word. And with everything else you've told us –"</p><p>"She just needs someone she can feel safe with. Someone to –"</p><p>"That person isn't you!" Kurt snaps. "Okay? She's threatened by you, Britt. By me. By anyone who loves the skin they're in! You need to <em>see</em> that and think about if this is worth it!"</p><p>"Hey, you're that amazing dancer!" Daniel enthuses, skidding to a stop before them. "What can I get for you and your friend, on the house?"</p><p>All Brittany has for her new fan is a glum, "screw the orange juice, I'll take four Fearless Rednecks."</p><p>After another failed attempt to manipulate security into ejecting Brittany and her friends, Santana finds herself down in the cellar changing a barrel.</p><p>She welcomes the cool draft that's nipping her skin, a nice respite from the suffocating heat upstairs. It's like she can breathe again, away from the heat.</p><p>Away from Brittany's mopey stare.</p><p>She hears a distant metallic rattle, assumes it's either Daniel, Barry, or Carla descending the cellar stairs.</p><p>"Whoever's there, come help me with this barrel!" she calls.</p><p>A box falls somewhere else, the sudden crash startling her upright.</p><p>She runs cautious eyes over the space, calls, "who's there? If that's you screwing around, Daniel, I'm free for that ball removal surgery right when I clock out."</p><p>"I'm not Daniel, I'm keeping my balls, and my friends think I needed to pee."</p><p>Santana's gaze darts to the second cellar entryway, where Brittany's stood posting a hand to the brickwork to keep upright.</p><p>"You being down here?" Santana points to the concrete beneath her heels. "Is a valid enough reason for me to finally get security to boot you from the premises. Nice fuck-up, Sherlock."</p><p>She heads for the door that leads upstairs.</p><p>But Brittany's hot on her trail. "I didn't like how you spoke to my friend," she slurs. "It took a lot for him to be okay with who he is, yet you called him that awful name."</p><p>"Like I give a shit."</p><p>"That's what you want me to think – that you don't care. You don't fool me, Santana. Everybody thinks I'm stupid, but I'm not!"</p><p>Santana halts her step as Brittany's heated bark registers.</p><p>She spins around with a spiteful smirk, shoves the blonde's shoulder. "Well someone's bought into their beer muscles. Go on, Britt-Britt," she whispers, slowly walking up on her. "Raise your voice at me again. I dare you."</p><p>"Grow some lady balls and kiss me again! I dare you!"</p><p>"If I kiss you, I'm taking your bottom lip home with me, and you're going to the emergency room. How 'bout that?"</p><p>Brittany stares at her for a long moment, her eyes disappointed and grieving. Mourning what could've been.</p><p>The pillow fights. The kisses. The snuggles. The smiles.</p><p>The love.</p><p>All of it.</p><p>She steps past the shorter woman with a final sigh, heading for the stairs.</p><p>Tosses, "bye Santana," over her shoulder.</p><p>It takes a second for Santana to grasp what's happening.</p><p>But when it hits, it <em>hits</em>.</p><p>She grabs Brittany by the wrist before she's out of reach, yanks her back so they're nose to nose. "No. This isn't done until <em>I</em> say it's done. You don't just get to walk away."</p><p>She's angry for reasons she doesn't even understand, trembling as her cold gaze burns up at Brittany.</p><p>Into Brittany.</p><p>Brittany, whose sluggish eyelids close as she leans her nose into Santana's cheek, resting it there.</p><p>Santana's breathing slows with the contact, swelling to an occasional sigh. Not content, but composing.</p><p>Steadying.</p><p>An attempt to tame arousal.</p><p>But Brittany can feel the ambush coming; Santana's breath picking up as she shifts her head, their lips millimetres apart.</p><p>The leap is as needy as the first, but the land is softer; Santana's mouth catching Brittany's sideways, the slow twist of her neck locking the kiss deep.</p><p>Brittany cups her cheeks, rolls her tongue with Santana's so well that the latina quivers against her.</p><p>It's wonderful. Warm and sensual.</p><p>But she knows it won't last.</p><p>So she pulls back, their lips parting with a slow erotic moist smack.</p><p>"No," she says.</p><p>Santana's eyes are still closed, but they slowly open, peering into dilated pupils.</p><p>"That was hot, and you're so hot, but I'm so mad at you right now. You attacked my friend and you're not sorry." Brittany shrugs, defeated and glum. "So take care of yourself, Santana."</p><p>When she walks away this time, Santana lets her.</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Apologies for any typos. I'm having some eye pain, so couldn't proofread the way this chapter deserved.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A week has passed since that night.</p><p>A week since Brittany pulled away, then walked away.</p><p>Santana's doing fine. She's fine. Living her best life. <em>Everything</em> is fine.</p><p>The punch bag she's just elbowed disagrees. She blasts a hard high kick into it, angles off to dig in a hook followed by another elbow, and then a thudding knee up the middle.</p><p>The bag jumps on its chains, shuddering laterally.</p><p>"Yeah, take that," she pants, planting her back foot to the mat, and extending through with her lead in a snappy push kick.</p><p>The bag jerks and swings away, but returns just as fast. She grabs hold of it, moving with the momentum to negate the force, and with her slowing pace, it becomes apparent just how breathless she is.</p><p>She hangs on the bag, makes it carry her weight, her abs expanding and contracting something furious as her forehead drips.</p><p>Her purse, hung up on the wall rack, rings then.</p><p>She shoves the heavy bag away, steps aside to avoid its return, and rips the sparring gloves off, tossing them to the mat.</p><p>Once her phone's to her ear, she grunts, "what?"</p><p>"What's going on between you and Restless?"</p><p>Santana glares, recalling the things that asshole said to her. "That cumstain called me gay, Unc! I shoulda rolled up on his house and torched the place! Starting with his bitch! Her face woulda looked like two vaginas bumpin' once I was done with her trout-mouth ass. Bitch looks like a God damn ventriloquist dummy."</p><p>The response comes simple: "Well aren't you?"</p><p>"Aren't I what?" Santana exasperates, in no mood for cryptic talk.</p><p>"Gay."</p><p>A confused frown pleats her forehead. "What the fuck is wrong with everybody? I've had <em>boyfriends</em>! <em>Plenty</em> of <em>boyfriends</em>!"</p><p>"Every guy you ever brought around, you were annoyed he existed. Plus I'd see you looking at Q a little too long."</p><p>"<em>That's</em> your evidence? That I hated my boyfriends and looked at my assignment partner? That's a casual workday for any chick in America. Fuck your evidence."</p><p>"I don't know. I mean, sure you got this hard tough exterior. But even so, tough chicks – when they're home with their guy, just the two of 'em, they do sappy romantic shit. Cuddle, give massages. Call each other cute names. You know, the romantic shit. But somehow, I just could never imagine you doing that stuff. With any guy."</p><p>"I'm plenty freakin' romantic. I bought Jake that toolset, and I stopped myself elbowing Puck when he suggested anal. What more do you want? You want me to buy roses? Women aren't supposed to buy guys roses."</p><p>Alsarvio laughs softly. "You're just making my point."</p><p>"And you're making me wanna crack someone in the face."</p><p>"So what else is new? That's my evidence. A feeling. And it's not wrong, is it?"</p><p>"I'm not gay."</p><p>There's a beat of silence, then: "Look, sobrina, your parents are no longer with us, God rest their souls. They were never on board with anything out of the ordinary. I mean, your mother gave your older brother up because he was born with no limbs. Said he was possessed by the devil. But now they're gone." He pauses, letting his words sit. "You're free to do whatever it is you want, and you're free to be whoever it is you wanna be. You're a Lopez, which means you walk to the beat of your own damn drum – put a bullet in anyone who's got somethin' to say."</p><p>Santana's eyes prickle, shimmering over. But she blinks away the tsunami she feels building there. Stays mute, not knowing if her voice will shake.</p><p>"Santana?"</p><p>"Hm?"</p><p>"You ever need anything, you just call. We take care of each other. <em>Capiche</em>?" he jokes in that thick Italian accent perpetuated in movies.</p><p>Santana nods a couple times, croaks a quiet, "yeah."</p><p>"You should swing by, make up with Sean. He hides it well, but he's upset about your disagreement."</p><p>"Sean can suck my dick," she says with a watery sniff.</p><p>She's ten minutes into her walk home when she happens to glance her watch.</p><p>Happens to.</p><p>She tells herself that, but she knows it's not happenstance. Knows that Brittany's teaching today, and that her class concludes in thirteen minutes.</p><p>A moment of indecision befalls her, where her mind runs unwanted scenarios of what could happen if she goes to the studio. If she sees Brittany and Brittany sees her.</p><p>In the end her feet make the choice for her, cutting down a side street.</p><p>It's not long before she's stood across the street from the studio.</p><p>She watches the small building, waits for the eruption of noisy kids she's come to expect.</p><p>But it doesn't come.</p><p>She looks at her watch, suddenly realizes where she is and what she's doing in a moment of abrupt – and quite frankly rude – clarity.</p><p>"This is so fucking retarded," she mumbles at herself.</p><p><em>Waiting outside this chick's work. A chick who fucked your boyfriend. She probably let him do anal, <strong>and</strong> come in her mouth</em>.</p><p>"Ugh, I hate everything about this. How did <em>this</em> become my life?" she grumbles, attracting some looks from those passing by.</p><p>One guy rolls her a couple of quarters, his smile pitying as he says, "because mental health matters."</p><p>
  <em>Great. Now I'm New York's newest street corner crazy.</em>
</p><p>The familiar bustle of children let loose sounds then, and Santana draws herself out of obvious sight, half hidden to the side of a mom-and-pop store.</p><p>Brittany soon surfaces in her usual loose-fitting attire, duffle bag slung up on her shoulder.</p><p>She smiles at everyone who looks her way, leaving a trail of parents and kids whose day seems brighter for it.</p><p>Then she's hugging some guy who's with a little girl. She laughs at something he says, breaks into a half-assed dance move that looks better than most at full effort. He's in hysterics because of it.</p><p>Brittany looks fine.</p><p>More than fine.</p><p>Happy.</p><p>Thriving.</p><p>Santana's heart picks up, her palms suddenly clammy. She takes a deep breath, tells her body, "alright, calm the fuck down. This isn't that deep."</p><p>But it is that deep, and it's becoming more and more difficult to pretend it's not.</p><hr/><p>She's been up since the early bird's first song.</p><p>She's showered, her make-up is on point, and she's dressed respectfully.</p><p>Now she's in the closet mirror, running product through her hair so it'll hold the up-do her mother used to love so much.</p><p>"<em>Makes you look like a super model, mija. Mind yourself around those boys,</em>" her mother would say, chuckling as she kissed her forehead.</p><p>Santana quirks a smile at the memories. But it fades as she makes eye contact with herself, the anxiety resurfacing.</p><p>"Quit being such a pussy," she tells her reflection. "Just go there and say it like it is. They're dead."</p><p>She's right. They are dead, and it's been that way four years.</p><p>Four years, and she still hasn't visited them.</p><p>Today will be the first.</p><p>She checks her phone, unsure if it buzzed earlier.</p><p>There's a text from Mercedes.</p><p>
  <em>Wanna bring your hungry ass to my mom's, my sista from another mister? Christmas dinner's ready and it smells heavenly! There's chocolate gateau, Reeces cheesecake, and lemon meringue! Girl, we got everything! Xxx</em>
</p><p>Santana thumbs out a response.</p><p>
  <em>Can't. I think I'm finally gonna head to my parents' grave today. Xxx</em>
</p><p>A mere thirty seconds pass before her phone buzzes with a new message.</p><p>
  <em>For real? :O Want me to come with, or would you rather I stay my intrusive ass where it is? Xxxx</em>
</p><p>Santana smirks, types out the reply.</p><p>
  <em>Lol. We both know you don't wanna leave that Reeces cheesecake. Stay your intrusive ass where it be. X</em>
</p><p>There's three teenage boys sat on a cluster of headstones. They're passing a blunt back and forth, the casual swing of their legs and frequent laughter almost mocking for where they are.</p><p>It's clear that this is nothing to them, just a spot to stop and puff while the feds aren't looking.</p><p>It's more than that to Santana. Much more.</p><p>This is where her parents are.</p><p>Cussing the boys out and shooing them off crosses her mind. But it's neither the time nor place, and they're on the far side of the grounds at least.</p><p>She gently lays the bouquet of Marigolds to the well-kept patch of grass, preens some of the flowers left by others. And when they're perky, she crouches before the two large headstones.</p><p>"Hey," she starts with, and for all the times she's imagined what she'd say, it's feels almost anticlimactic. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. But, it just feels – it really sucks to be reminded..." Her words trail off into a tearful gasp she cups in her palm.</p><p>She pulls a tissue from the pack in her coat pocket, dabbing her eyes. "The way you guys went. It was so messed up, you know? It really sucks to think about. Most of the time I just... I don't."</p><p>She's thinking about it now though. And not in some vague numbed-out sense, but in such nuance that she swears she hears the phone ringing.</p><p>The phone call that broke her heart.</p><p>"<em>I'm sorry, Santana. They're... gone</em>."</p><p>"<em>Who? Who did it? I want addresses, names, and the schools their kids go to! They're <strong>all</strong> gonna die</em>!"</p><p>And die they all did. One by one. Anyone who had anything to do with the murder of Santiago and Gabriella Lopez.</p><p>Not that that makes this any better, because Santana still has to do this. Talk to two gravestones instead of her parents.</p><p>"I love you," she chokes out, dragging her forearm across quivering nostrils, tears rolling down her cheeks.</p><p>She wipes her face, sniffing in an attempt to gather herself, because she has things she needs to say, and if she chickens out now, there's no guarantee she'll ever come back.</p><p>"So," she says, blowing out a slow shaky breath, "you guys probably wanna know what the fuck's going on with me, right?" A weak watery chuckle leaves her. "Well see, lemme explain. So there's this chick. Brittany. She's oblivious, and exhausting, and annoying, and I'm not always sure how to take what she says. She's probably just tryna smash and dip. Who knows? But she's... she's gentle, and patient, and too sweet for her own good, and..."</p><p>
  <em>A <strong>really</strong> great kisser. But let's not go there.</em>
</p><p>"I just, I fight it. Thinking about her. I-I fight it. But she's persistent. Always finds a way to be there, even when she's not, and she's <em>kicking</em>," she stresses, "my ass right now. Everybody else has enough sense to be afraid, but it's like she flat-out refuses. It's infuriating. She's infuriating. And it's infuriating that she dropped me, even if I deserved it." Santana stops to sit down on the grass, her leg partially numb from the crouching. She shakes it out, wipes her nose as the pins and needles pass.</p><p>And then she's ready. Ready to finally crack the nut she's been hacking at.</p><p>"I think I might – that I might... like her. And I... I-I have to see what that's all about, otherwise I'm gonna lose my fucking mind. Is... is that okay?"</p><p>She peers between the two gravestones.</p><p>They peer back.</p><p>There's no disappointment, or shouting, or condemning her to hell. Nothing.</p><p>She relaxes, feeling a little braver. "So, you have a daughter who... Hell, you probably already knew it. Every other asshole seems to. And I suppose… I suppose I'm gonna have to learn how to be this, this new person. And it's gonna be tough. Really tough. And I'm gonna suck at it. But that's gotta be better than... than doing this."</p><p>She spends some time further preening the grave, dusts the headstones off where there's moss growing.</p><p>She runs her fingers over the letters engraved in stone, loses herself in memories of her parents. Their smiles. Their mannerisms.</p><p>Smells.</p><p>Everything.</p><p>"I love you," she tells them again.</p><p>Then, sucking in a large breath, she stands.</p><p>Her hands dust at her kneecaps and thighs, and when she's done she bends to pluck a single Marigold from the bouquet, twirling the stem as she unearths her phone.</p><p>She pulls up her recent call list, hits '<em>Call Unc</em>.'</p><p>He answers on the fourth ring.</p><p>"Hearing from you again so soon? Who died?"</p><p>"Nobody. I need a home address. Thiago already found her in the work database, but I need to know where she stays. Her name's Brittany. Brittany S Pierce. It's um..." Santana glances the flower she's holding. "It's important."</p><p>"I'll have Thiago text you some time in the evening."</p><p>"Thanks Unc, and um, Merry Christmas."</p><p>"Merry Christmas, sobrina."</p><p>The street's especially festive.</p><p>Blow-up Santa Clauses in front lawns, entire nativity scenes playing out in lights across roofs. Light-up reindeers galloping over doors. Candy cane stickers in car windows. Fake snow mountains in driveways.</p><p>Santana's not surprised this is where Brittany lives.</p><p>She walks up on the address Thiago sent her, noting the extravagant tree in the window, with its flashing rainbow lights and unicorn baubles.</p><p>There's noise coming from inside, and it grows in Santana's ears with every step. Everything from music and snorts of laughter, to tinny toy sirens and silly voices.</p><p>She draws her coat closed when she reaches the door, buttoning it at the navel because the alternative feels like too much vulnerability.</p><p>Then she knocks.</p><p>And waits.</p><p>When the door opens, Brittany comes into view. But she's looking away, chuckling at someone or something inside the house, her hand cupped as if anticipating a ball. "If I catch it, we're totally doing another round of body shots, and I get to be Asuka Kazama on Tekken: Dark Resurrection for a month, <em>without</em> you complaining that I'm always –"</p><p>"Uhh, <em>hello</em>?"</p><p>Brittany turns her head, and as she does, a small rubber ball soars towards her, smacking her in the shin before rolling off.</p><p>"You lose!" someone inside taunts.</p><p>Brittany doesn't protest the loss, just stands there staring.</p><p>Murmurs, "Santana."</p><p>Santana looks off, subtly nods to acknowledge Brittany's utterance.</p><p>"What are you doing here?"</p><p>It's a question Santana doesn't have a fleshed-out answer for.</p><p>"Here," she says, extending the Marigold to the blonde before she loses all nerve. "I'm calling a ceasefire."</p><p>Brittany frowns as she takes the flower. "A ceasefire? What, is that like some sort of barbeque? – Like a bonfire? Are you inviting me to a barbeque, Santana?"</p><p>Santana's shoulders rise and fall with a sigh.</p><p>She scrapes together the courage to give Brittany eye contact, and once she looks she gets greedy. Notes Brittany's bare feet, the sauce stain in her baggy gray sweater.</p><p>The pom-pom Santa hat.</p><p>"No," she eventually says, giving a quick shake of the head. "It means that if I see you out and about, I'm not gonna be thinking about knifing you anymore."</p><p>Brittany looks at the flower she's holding with new eyes, her face breaking into an easy natural smile – like sunshine through a raindrop. "Wait a minute, is this for me?" she asks, touching her chest.</p><p>Santana slips both hands into her coat pockets, feigning an interest in the mini gnome statue sat on the outer window ledge. "Oh and, tell your friend that – I don't know – I saw someone behind him with a cigarette, and decided to brush up on my English slang. Tell him to stop being such a drama queen, and that not everything's about him, because I wasn't calling <em>him</em> a fag."</p><p>Brittany smirks knowingly. "You're a really bad liar."</p><p>Santana folds her arms almost argumentatively, but not quite. "I'm a great liar."</p><p>Brittany tugs the Santa hat from her head, slides the flower into her mussed blonde hair until only the orange head is visible.</p><p>"So," she says, whispering, "is the flower for me or him?"</p><p>"Did I give it to him? No I didn't."</p><p>"Before you got here you could've – and it's possible you're just recycling the gift. I have a fingerprint dusting kit that'll tell me if he's touched it in seconds."</p><p>"I gave it to you. That means it's for you."</p><p>Brittany's smile blossoms at the confirmation, and she steps forward to reward Santana's cheek with an appreciative peck, but the latina flinches away, brown eyes downcast in frown.</p><p>"Just… slow, okay?" she says, Brittany's warmth evaporating as she draws back out of her space.</p><p>"I can go so slow, I be goin' backwards," the blonde jests, repeatedly pinching and dropping the fabric of her sweater, like the rappers she's seen on TV.</p><p>Santana just stares at her, and when she's done trying to figure out what makes Brittany tick, she blinks and turns to leave.</p><p>"Wait!" Brittany says. "Where are you going?"</p><p>"Home," Santana slowly answers.</p><p>"Wanna come in? We have Santa hats and Christmas crackers," Brittany sings, like that's all a girl could ever want. "Oh, and there's food left over. You like shrimp? This isn't a Hansel and Gretel ploy to eat you once you're fattened up by the way."</p><p>"I... wasn't thinking that. But now I am."</p><p>"We don't eat people here, but <em>you</em> don't know that, which is why I'm saying: if we feed you, it's not 'cause we're fattening you up to eat you. Like, straight up, we're not one of those households; you're safe here."</p><p>"Uh... right."</p><p>"So you wanna come in? You can stay as long as you want. I'll get you a drink and fix you a plate, and we can play Tekken. But only if I can be Asuka Kazama. I like her little grunts."</p><p>Santana shakes her head. "No, um, thanks. I'm just gonna head home and hit the sack. I'm pretty beat."</p><p>"Santana?"</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"I'm really happy you came, and Kurt's gonna be pleased to hear you said sorry."</p><p>"<em>Uh</em>," Santana drawls, "I don't remember saying sorry – like, that actual word I never said."</p><p>Brittany just grins, rolling her eyes. "But that's what you meant, right? And I heard it loud and clear. So thank you."</p><p>Santana nods once in silent surrender, before she turns and sets off down the path.</p><p>"Thank you Santa from the mall," Brittany tells the twinkling night sky.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Disclaimer: mentions of child trafficking.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Santana's thinking about telling Mercedes.</p><p><em>Been</em> thinking about it.</p><p>But it's hard.</p><p>Mercedes is the only close friend she has. Her sista from another mister. She's been around since high school, the two of them tight as woven rope; seeing each other through tough times, and celebrating the wins. And the thought of Mercedes looking at her like... like <em>that</em>.</p><p>Like she's some pantie sniffing, clit flicking, pussy slurper...</p><p>Santana shakes the unbearable thought, comes back to her surroundings.</p><p>"What are these saying, mama?" Mercedes asks, twirling the heels from their ankle straps. "You like 'em?"</p><p>"Nice."</p><p>"Just nice? Hmm. Nice won't do. Especially for this price tag."</p><p>"They're not that expensive."</p><p>"You buy them then, Jeff Bezos."</p><p>"Jeff Bezos looks like a dick without the foreskin. So now I'm not buying you the shoes – and I would've. But nah, not now."</p><p>Mercedes laughs, returns the heels to the display and continues to shuffle along the aisle. "So I know it's been two weeks since Christmas and all, but you <em>really</em> missed out on that Reece's cheesecake. Boy, I almost ate the spoon."</p><p>"So <em>that's</em> where all the spoons I used to have disappeared to. I thought I had rats. But turns out I just had an extreme case of greedy BFF."</p><p>Mercedes nudges her in playful reproach, Santana stumbling a little before nudging back. They chuckle at their antics. Their familiar dynamic.</p><p>"So how did the visit to see your parents go? You never let me know when we spoke on the phone."</p><p>Santana stops to eye a sunglasses rack she has absolutely no interest in. "It was cool."</p><p>"Cool?"</p><p>"Did I s-s-stutter?"</p><p>"Girl, you better drop that tone."</p><p>Santana closes her eyes and sighs, opening them moments later. "Fine," she growls. "I apologized to them for not visiting sooner. I bawled like a deranged baby, put flowers down, and then I got outta there. Happy?"</p><p>"Not really."</p><p>"Good, now can we please talk about something else? – Government-run child trafficking or something?"</p><p>"We're not talking about that. You think I want Killary Clinton on my ass? That bitch is a gangster even your uncle wouldn't wanna fuck with. Do your research; she's dark."</p><p>"Yeah well, as long as we're not talking about my parents," Santana grumbles.</p><p>Mercedes taps her shoulder, subtly jerks her head towards the men's section. "How about we talk about the hunk of chocolate who's giving you eyes?"</p><p>Santana turns her head, and there he is. All six foot of him pretending to check out pants while devouring her with his gaze.</p><p>He's extremely handsome, she can admit, and he grows more so with his wolfish grin and smooth wink.</p><p>She could go over, trade numbers, and have a date setup for Friday just like that, and if the hopeful excitement in Mercedes' eye is any indication, that's what she wants to see happen.</p><p>But it's not going to.</p><p>Santana's been there, done that, and her truth <em>still</em> caught up to her.</p><p>What would be the point?</p><p>She shakes her head. "No, I'm um, not really looking for anything right now. But if you wanna take a crack at him, knock yourself out."</p><p>"You're not looking for anything right now? Girl please; I bet your vibrator's dead from constant use."</p><p>"Leave my vibrator out of this."</p><p>Mercedes falls into a fit of chuckles. "Which one?"</p><p>"All of 'em, that's which one."</p><p>"You haven't done the do since you kicked Puck's mowhawkin' ass to the curb. I'm just looking out for my girl's needs."</p><p>Needs.</p><p>Santana knows <em>all</em> about needs. They're deafening and ruthless. Relentless, like Jehovah Witness door knockers.</p><p>Especially at night.</p><p>Especially since, now, she has Brittany's face to put to them.</p><p>She's not ready to even think about fulfilling them, doesn't know if she ever will be. But they're there.</p><hr/><p>It's been so long since she logged into Facebook, she's certain her account will have been deleted.</p><p>She hits enter on her laptop, watches her profile page load, appearing just as she left it, shockingly.</p><p>There are endless notifications. So many the page lags.</p><p>Most are Mafia Wars game requests.</p><p>
  <em>If I play Mafia Wars with you mother fuckers, it's not gonna be some dumb Facebook game. That's for sure.</em>
</p><p>There are likes, event reminders, and some comments on old posts.</p><p>Then there's the one friend request.</p><p>Santana drags her finger about the touchpad and clicks the notification, opening up a list of requests she's yet to respond to, the top one from: Brittany S Pierce.</p><p>"Jesus," she murmurs, taking in Brittany's profile picture. "I think my IQ just dropped ten points looking at this shit."</p><p>Even so, she clicks through, finds the profile's as open as the woman behind it.</p><p>The latest post?</p><p>
  <em>Sour Patch Kids are just gummy bears that turned to drugs. Change my mind.</em>
</p><p>Santana's on her way to an eye roll, but when she stops to really think about it, it strikes her almost genius.</p><p>She caves to the smallest smile, clicks into Brittany's photo albums.</p><p>
  <em>Rockaway Beach day out with Cass :-)</em>
</p><p>Cass, Santana quickly learns, is a blonde girl around age six who shares a likeness to Brittany. A niece, or a cousin, or something. In several pictures, she's buried up to her neck in soft golden sand, her eyebrows furrowed against the sun's glare. But it's clear she's having fun, the pictures changing slightly as Santana scrolls down; a smile in one, a silly face in another.</p><p>And Brittany's right beside her in most, grinning at whoever took the picture while holding an ice-cream, a unicorn towel loosely wrapped around her.</p><p>The ice-cream is missing in the next photo.</p><p>So is the towel.</p><p>And Brittany is wearing a skimpy red bikini.</p><p>Santana's eyes drop to the laptop keyboard, only to rise back to the picture.</p><p>Everything's on show. And what isn't, isn't hard to imagine.</p><p>The thin red fabric is barely covering the swell of Brittany's breasts, or her rear – and she's proportionately toned too. Athletic and lean. Toned thighs, arms, and calves.</p><p>Then there's her abs, which are slightly more defined than the latina's own. A little longer and more evenly spaced.</p><p>Her body is beautiful.</p><p>Brittany is beautiful.</p><p>Santana quickly hits the back button, starts up a game of Windows Solitaire, all while wondering how she missed that Brittany was so well-put-together. After all, she saw her in her bra and panties when she caught her with Noah.</p><p>"Guess rage really is blind."</p><p>She finds herself back on Facebook scrolling Brittany's timeline for the next hour, ends up learning who some of the mainstays in her life are. Like the wheelchair guy, Cass, the two guys who showed up to the bar with her, and some older Korean guy she's always hugging tightly.</p><p>So when Santana sees that Robin O'veere tagged Brittany in a post a year ago, she wants to know who she is.</p><p>Goes looking until she comes upon a picture of Robin and Brittany kissing in a dark nightclub.</p><p>As she stares at it, she doesn't know how or what she feels. Just knows it doesn't feel particularly good.</p><hr/><p>Santana hums at the taste, slapping her lips before returning the lid to the wok.</p><p>"Perfect. Shoulda been a chef."</p><p>She turns the stove top off, allowing the paella to cool. Pours herself a generous glass of wine.</p><p>As she moves in for that first sip, the landline rings.</p><p>On an eye roll, she sits the glass on the kitchen counter and moves into the living area, snatching the phone from its base and thrusting it to her ear.</p><p>"This better be good. I was just about to get my Sons of Anarchy on."</p><p>"Hey Santana. It's Brittany. Wanna hang out?"</p><p>Santana feels her heart begin to gallop.</p><p>From zero to sixty.</p><p>"Hold up, how'd you get this number?"</p><p>"I found it online. Did you know there are two Santana Maria Lopez' in New York? One's a forty-dollar-a-minute dominatrix. I was gonna book a cam sesh to see if it was you."</p><p>"She's not me," Santana clarifies, deadpan.</p><p>"I know that now. But not at first."</p><p>Silence settles across the line.</p><p>Naturally Santana's threatened by it.</p><p>"You can stop thinking about me in latex with a whip; I can hear <em>all</em> your little dominatrix thoughts."</p><p>"Really? 'Cause I was thinking about how dolphins are just gay sharks."</p><p>Santana frowns, ready to cast the statement off as another indecipherable Brittanyism. But when she gives it more thought, she realizes Brittany's logic actually feels kinda plausible.</p><p>"Okay, back to this dominatrix: how are you just casually admitting you were down to pay forty dollars a minute to have some chick say fucked up savage shit to you on babe cam?"</p><p>"Not <em>some</em> chick. You."</p><p>"That makes this better by <em>zero</em> percent. You were gonna pay <em>forty</em> <em>dollars</em> a <em>minute</em> for an online freak session."</p><p>"Sorta? But not really. Like, I would've charged it back so my new cat would think it was a mistake when he saw my bank statement. Things are new between Sir Purrs-a-Lot and I, and I'm trying to make a good impression."</p><p>"What are you even talking about? Cats don't read bank statements. Cats don't read <em>period</em>."</p><p>"Wanna bet? Sir Purrs-a-Lot runs my bank account. He's great with numbers. I can have him take a look at yours if you want."</p><p>"l'll pass."</p><p>"Sir Purrs-a-Lot is sadly used to feline discrimination in the workplace."</p><p>"Besides tryna recruit me to your cat's accountancy firm, why are you calling?"</p><p>"I already said, but you must've missed it. You wanna hang out? Get to know each other a little better? Tell me your favorite Hershey's Kiss, and I'll tell you mine. You know, that sort of thing."</p><p>It sounds like a date proposal, and Santana isn't sure if Brittany's intentionally omitting the D-word so as not to scare her off, or if that's just how the request came out.</p><p>Either way she's terrified.</p><p>
  <em>Shoulda guzzled that glass of damn wine before I answered the phone.</em>
</p><p>"You don't have to come to my place. I just wanna spend some time with you, Santana. You can totally pick where, when, and how."</p><p>Santana rakes shaky fingers back through her hair, ruffling the strands in an act of unconscious stalling.</p><p>This is so fucking strange. She pulled a gun on this woman, intending to do damage.</p><p>And... she's attracted to her.</p><p><em>Her</em>.</p><p><em>And</em> they're eskimo sisters via Noah.</p><p>It's madness.</p><p>One big messy pot of unfamiliar terrifying madness.</p><p>And it spills over: "How the fuck are you even a real person? How are you being so God damn normal about this? Tell me that!"</p><p>"I don't know how I'm a real person. Just that I am, I think. And normal about wanting to get to know you better?"</p><p>"All of it! I pulled a gun on you, and here you are tryna get to know me better. Make it make sense."</p><p>"I guess I just understand... stuff? – Well, you. I understand you."</p><p>"You don't know me from a pair of Ukrainian titties. Let's get that straight."</p><p>"I know that coming to my place to call a bonfire was super hard for you, but you were totally a soldier and did it anyway. That it took major lady balls. And I know that I was so so proud of you – like, you have no idea how proud. Being able to just share that with you, and then the flower? My two favorite Christmas gifts. And I know that this, right now, is scary too. But I'll totally hold your hand if you let me."</p><p>Santana scoffs. "What makes you think I need anybody to be proud of me, <em>or</em> that I need my hand held?"</p><p>"But, everybody wants someone to be proud of them, Santana. Even if that someone is you being proud of yourself. And everybody needs their hand held at one time or another. It's okay to lean on others."</p><p>Santana finds herself unable to counter; cat's got her tongue and won't give it the fuck back.</p><p>"You still there Santana? I hope you didn't accidentally drop the phone in the toilet, 'cause I did that a few times. My last phone wasn't so resilient, and now the toilet tank rings every time you flush."</p><p>"Look," Santana sighs, glancing at the wall clock. "You can, um…" She sighs again, hand trembling down at her side. "If you pass by you gotta keep your hands where I can see 'em at <em>all</em> times – and don't try to steal anything! I don't let strangers in my apartment, so don't make me regret this."</p><p>Brittany's grin can almost be felt through the phone.</p><p>"Awesome sauce! And don't worry, I won't steal anything," Brittany promises, adding a mischievous, "except maybe your heart."</p><p>Santana pulls the phone away from her ear, stares at it unblinking for a second, and then slowly returns it. "Yeah well good luck with that," she says, the <em>you're gonna need it</em> implied.</p><p>"Thanks," the blonde chirps. "So I'll see you in, like, a half hour?"</p><p>"An hour and a half," Santana counters, just to be difficult about it.</p><p>"Okay. Then I'll see you in an hour and a half."</p><p>"I guess."</p><p>"Awesome!"</p><p>Awesome is <em>not</em> the word Santana would use to describe her pre-date anxiety.</p><p>Her heart is pounding, mouth a desert.</p><p>Palms sweaty.</p><p>Legs weak.</p><p>She downs her glass of wine in one gulp; moves around the apartment fluffing cushions, setting embarrassing photos face down, and re-applying lipstick.</p><p>The TV's at a weird angle, consequence of her knocking it when polishing yesterday. She spends an absurd amount of time putting it right, testing out how it looks from each sofa cushion before getting up to check her mascara's not blotching.</p><p>"Fuck, are you really doing this?" she asks herself, standing in the middle of the living area, a little pushed for breath.</p><p>She's never been this nervous for a date, and she's been on plenty.</p><p>But this, with Brittany, is different.</p><p>She downs another glass of wine.</p><p>Or two.</p><p>Gives her neck three puffs of her favorite perfume.</p><p>"Okay, quit being such a girl about this! She's just a freakin' person!" she tells herself.</p><p>In that moment there's a crisp knock on the door.</p><p>An anxious heat boils in Santana's gut, searing up and setting her heart into a ferocious thrum.</p><p>She looks down at her body. "Jesus Christ, if I have to tell you to behave one more time, you aren't getting any vibrator action for a month! We clear?"</p><p>She nods slightly when she thinks her body's understood, runs a hand through her hair and crosses the space, blowing out a final breath before opening the door.</p><p>"Hey Santana," Brittany chirps off of a merry little wave, her blue-eyed gaze passing over the latina. "Wow, those glasses look stupid cute on you. Very librarian-esque."</p><p>Santana touches her frames, having forgotten she even put them on. "Oh, um... thanks."</p><p>Brittany gives her a soft smile, whispers, "not a problem."</p><p>Santana clears her throat, tries to get herself to say something nice about Brittany's appearance.</p><p>And there are many things to praise.</p><p>Like her hair, which is parted in the middle and flowing over her shoulders in fashionably tussled waves.</p><p>And her make-up, which is understated but enough to make her eyes sparkle and pop.</p><p>And her clothes. A vintage t-shirt beneath a sharp black blazer. Blue skinny jeans and black heels.</p><p>If Santana's honest with herself, Brittany looks... amazing.</p><p>But she can't say it aloud.</p><p>So she awkwardly steps aside to allow Brittany entry.</p><p>"Want me to take my shoes off here?" the blonde asks, stepping inside.</p><p>"Shoe rack's over there."</p><p>As Brittany kicks off her heels and carries them to the shoe rack, Santana locks the door and slips off to the kitchen area, where she pours another glass of red.</p><p>She takes the rim to her lips for a sip, watches Brittany move around the bookcase to get to the sofa, which she drops into with a merry sigh.</p><p>Santana resents her ease as much as she finds footing in it.</p><p>"Did you ever let Noah hit from the back?" she asks over the rim of her glass.</p><p>She takes another sip.</p><p>Brittany looks at her, brows knit in frown. "Hit what? Are we talking pinatas?"</p><p>"No. I'm talking about Noah hitting it from the back. Your back. More specifically, what's parked on my sofa cushion."</p><p>"Are you talking about my butt?"</p><p>"If that's how you wanna put it."</p><p>Brittany laughs, and it's a sound Santana thinks she likes.</p><p>"Well, Santana, I've spoken with my butt, and she doesn't wanna be talked about right now. Said to try again tomorrow. But since you wanna know if Noah stretched my starfish, I can confirm no poker in the back." Brittany thrusts three fingers up in scout's honor.</p><p>"Good, 'cause that'd be unbearably fucking gross."</p><p>Another sip.</p><p>"Do you have other questions about me and Noah? We never did get to talk it out, and you were so upset when you found us. I felt like an asshole."</p><p>
  <em>So upset I flung a bat at your head, and here you are tryna get to know me on some love train shit. Make it make sense.</em>
</p><p>"Feel like an asshole or don't, just as long as Noah didn't put it <em>in</em> your asshole."</p><p>"Wait, is this like something that's been bugging you Santana? You could've asked months ago, and I totally woulda put your mind at –"</p><p>"This isn't about Noah. This is about the acts <em>you</em> let that gorilla do to you."</p><p>"Why?" Brittany asks, shrugging. "I mean, sex is sex right?"</p><p>"No. It's not. If you're gonna be here, in my apartment around my stuff, I need to know what I'm getting into – what kind of standards you have."</p><p>"Sexy time standards are way different than non-sexy-time standards."</p><p>"My point still stands."</p><p>Brittany hums. "So what I'm getting is: you don't like anal sex? I hope that's not 'cause you had a bad experience. That'd be... shitty."</p><p>Santana deadpans. "No it is <em><strong>not</strong></em> <em>shitty</em>, smartass, 'cause it never happened, nor will it ever. And if in some alternate realm it did happen, there would be absolutely <em>no</em> shit, got it?"</p><p>"Gotcha," Brittany chuckles.</p><p>"Good. Now I'm gonna wash these dishes. TV remote's on the coffee table. Knock yourself out."</p><p>"Want help? I have daydreams where I'm this state champion dish washer no one can beat."</p><p>"No," Santana says a little too quickly. "Just," she sighs, "stay where you are."</p><p>Truth is, she doesn't need to hand wash her dishes. She has a dishwasher. An expensive high-functioning one.</p><p>What she needs is distance, and she needs distance because Brittany looks amazing, and Santana's not sure how many glasses she's had. Just that she's a little buzzed and <em>Snix</em> could do something that <em>Santana's</em> not ready for.</p><p>Once the dishes are rinsed, dried, <em>and</em> put away, she finds more chores to do. Portions the paella into Tupperware tubs and descales the kettle. Takes the trash out and scrubs the inside of the microwave.</p><p>And now she's out of tasks, and Brittany is still sat on her sofa, quite happily commenting along to some TV show.</p><p>It's... cute.</p><p>Santana rolls her eyes at herself and opens the fridge door. "You want a drink?" she calls.</p><p>"Ooh, a drink would be great. What do you have?"</p><p>"You'll take what your ass is given," Santana grumbles under her breath.</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"Fanta, water, or wine. Take your pick."</p><p>"I'll take Fanta please."</p><p>Santana pulls the Fanta bottle from the fridge rack, slams the fridge door. "Big or small glass?"</p><p>"Small please; I get hyper with too much sugar."</p><p>"Of course you do," Santana murmurs, grabbing a glass and filling it.</p><p>She heads towards the sofa and hands Brittany the drink. "Don't spill it," she warns, their hands brushing with the exchange.</p><p>"Thanks Santana, I won't. Have you seen this show before?" Brittany asks, gesturing at the TV. "I never saw it before today, but it's pretty cool."</p><p>The latina looks at the TV, shakes her head. "No."</p><p>"It's called Hologram – which is a pretty awesome name all by itself, right? But then lemme tell you what it's about. So, there's this guy. Sampson – which I could swear is a dog's name, but whatever. He keeps getting pulled out of reality by this looming dark figure, and transported to this place where there's infinite reality bubbles he can go to, and there's always like a lesson in each one he visits. It's awesome. Right now he's in one where he's seeing everything from his wife's point of view, and they're not showing it but he must be freaking out about having a vagina."</p><p>Santana wishes she could switch to a reality bubble where she's better at this. One where she isn't afraid to sit next to Brittany. Or tell her she looks nice.</p><p>Or admit to herself, without the internal scolding, that the blonde's excitable ramble just now was... endearing.</p><p>Brittany takes several little sips of her drink, laughs shyly at the slurping noise it makes and says, "sorry."</p><p>
  <em>You should be sorry. I damn near cleaned this whole apartment because you decided you wanted to be attractive.</em>
</p><p>"You can sit down you know, Santana," Brittany suddenly says, peering up at her with kind compassionate eyes. "I promise not to do anything that's gonna freak you out."</p><p>
  <em>Too late. You exist.</em>
</p><p>"Uh, no, that's not why I wasn't, um... why I'm not sitting. I just... didn't wanna sit yet." She shrugs. "But uh, guess what? Now I do. Wanna, um, sit."</p><p>The sofa dips with her weight, a cushion away from the blonde. She brings her knees up to her chest, hugging them in place.</p><p>Peering across at her, Brittany warms all over, because Santana's all cute and sorta sheepish right now, and she's super huggable in her glasses, sweats, and tank top; her adorable little toes scrunched against the sofa fabric.</p><p><em>This</em> is the woman. The woman Brittany's been dying to meet.</p><p>Even if she's a terrible liar.</p><p>They watch the rest of the Hologram episode between stolen glances at each other, Santana more cunning about it than Brittany, who giggles the one time she catches her.</p><p>"It should be, like, illegal to be as cute as you are," she lets slip, and it's quiet so as not to ruffle any feathers.</p><p>Santana fidgets slightly, tucks some hair behind her ear. "I don't know what you're talking about."</p><p>"You totally know what I'm talking about. They should make Santana stuffed bears with knuckleduster accessories. I'd <em>so</em> buy them all."</p><p>"Your money, your choice."</p><p>"My money, my choice," Brittany confirms with a playful grin. "I'd buy them <em>all</em>. But I don't have to because I'm lucky enough to see the real you instead of just some replica."</p><p>
  <em>If you say so.</em>
</p><p>"I have tickets to the UFC event that's coming to town next week. Wanna come see some sweaty dudes beat each other up with me? The seats are so good, we'll feel the blood hit our faces."</p><p><em>That</em> gets Santana's attention; she lets her knees down and sits up straight. "Get the fuck outta here, you have UFC 253 tickets?"</p><p>"I totally have UFC 253 tickets."</p><p>Santana's excitement hits a wall then. When she realizes that such an outing would require her to be seen out in public.</p><p>With Brittany.</p><p>And nobody can tell her any different; she's certain people will just <em>know</em> if she's seen out with her.</p><p>"Hold up a second," she says on a suspicious frown. "How do you know I'm a UFC fan?"</p><p>"Elves told me in my sleep," Brittany answers, face so straight you could walk a line on it. "I'm screwing with you; Noah told me. I swear talking about you was the best part of our thing."</p><p>Santana maintains her frown.</p><p>"So you wanna come watch the fights with me?"</p><p>There's that question again, although that's not really the issue.</p><p>Santana wants to go and watch Israel Adesanya embarrass Paulo Costa with Brittany, and logically she knows no one in the crowd will give a fuck about them. But what if?</p><p>What if some drunk asshole catches a vibe from them, and decides to say something?</p><p>What if it ends in bloodshed outside of the cage? Because if anybody says anything, Santana knows, that's what it's going to be.</p><p>Bloodshed and a new mugshot.</p><p>"I'll... think about it," she says.</p><p>Brittany smiles. "Cool. Take all the time you need, Santana."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Disclaimer: mentions of rape.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"I'm soooo tingly," Brittany whines, forehead pressed to the bathroom mirror.</p><p>She pulls back and takes in her disgruntled appearance. Her hair is wild, strands bent and erect every which way, and her eyes are tired and pained.</p><p>She feels it, the charge buzzing throughout her body.</p><p>Everywhere.</p><p>She groans.</p><p>"What's going on?"</p><p>"Oh," Brittany says, the mirror revealing Artie in the bathroom doorway. "Morning Artie."</p><p>"Uh, morning Britt. What's all the noise about?"</p><p>"I had sexy times with Santana in —"</p><p>"Great," Artie mutters, his hardening expression echoing nothing of the sort. "Not even seven AM yet, and we're already talking about Santana. I liked it better when you weren't talking to her."</p><p>"I had sexy times in my dream last night," Brittany amends. "And now I'm all tingly. It's starting to hurt; I think I might need medical attention."</p><p>She grips the sink's lip with both hands and shakes a leg out, groaning again when she finds no relief.</p><p>"Oh," Artie utters in realization, suddenly hyper aware that Brittany's rear, though metres away, is directly in his line of sight.</p><p>He gulps, feeling chastised by the cutesy Powerpuff Girls design on her girl boxers.</p><p>"M-Maybe you should go for a walk or... something," he suggests.</p><p>"I accidentally left my window open through the night. So I know it's cold out, and my lady balls are already <em>super</em> blue right now. A walk's just gonna make it worse."</p><p>She twists both faucets on and off to give her mind something to do other than tingle. But even in the warped shiny silver of the chrome taps, she thinks she sees herself and Santana scissoring.</p><p>
  <em>Do you like that, Britt-Britt?</em>
</p><p>Brittany jerks her hands away from the taps as if bitten. "Artie, did you just hear that?"</p><p>
  <em>We're not stopping until one of us pops a hip. Am I making myself clear, Britt-Britt?</em>
</p><p>Brittany squints, side-steps the sink to press an ear against the tiled wall.</p><p>"What are you — Britt, I don't hear anything besides the boiler humming."</p><p>"That's not the boiler. It's my body," she mumbles miserably, sliding her ear along the tiles with a focused squint.</p><p>"What are you listening for?"</p><p>"I think I'm still dreaming, but I'm not sure."</p><p>"You're not dreaming."</p><p>"Dream Artie <em>would</em> say that. Be gone, treacherous imposter."</p><p>Artie chuckles in spite of himself. "You're awake Britt. Acting strange, but awake nonetheless."</p><p>Brittany draws herself away from the tile, returns to the mirror.</p><p>She's thought about going to her room, closing the door, and dealing with the ache. But she doesn't want Artie or the neighbors calling an ambulance because it sounds like she's hurting herself.</p><p>Not when there are people all over New York who need real medical help.</p><p>And it's not like being quiet is an option at this point either.</p><p>The release of whatever this is <em>isn't</em> going to be quiet, and Brittany may not know algebra, or where to place a semicolon, but she knows <em>that</em>.</p><p>"Come on Britt. Let's go eat breakfast. Help you forget about it."</p><p>"I'm not hungry for food," she whines. "I'm hungry for —"</p><p>"I don't need to hear the details, Britt," Artie objects on a wince.</p><p>"Sorry about the noise."</p><p>"What noise?"</p><p>Brittany breezes past him out into the hallway, her footsteps plodding and determined.</p><p>The <em>noise</em> is the buoyant opening percussion sequence in Beyoncé's <em>Why Don't You Love Me</em>.</p><p>"Britt, you have to turn that down! There's a new baby next door!" Artie shouts, rolling by Sir Purrs-a-Lot to get to the lounge, which... has been transformed.</p><p>The sofa and armchair are to the side of the room, unicorn lamps placed in the windowsill. Coffee table pushed forward.</p><p>And there, in the clear space, stands Brittany, rolling her neck from side to side as she laxly drums the air in a warm-up of sorts.</p><p>When the song kicks in fully, Brittany's body snaps into focus, her movements sharp, punchy, and strong, yet sexy and sassy in all the parts that call for it.</p><p>
  <em>Why don't you love me?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Tell me, baby, why don't you love me,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When I make me so damn easy to love?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And why don't you need me?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Tell me, baby, why don't you need me,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When I make me so damn easy to need?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I got beauty, I got class,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I got style, and I got ass,</em>
</p><p><em>And you don't even care to care</em>...</p><p>Artie watches Brittany, spellbound; her spins, the attitude. The way she straddles the armchair armrest and gyrates.</p><p>His concern for the noise evaporates, his mind clouding with grief, because Brittany is amazing. Everything one could want.</p><p>But he knows: she'll never talk about him the way she talks about Santana...</p><p>The impromptu performance goes on for hours, Artie wheeling himself into the lounge every now and then to check Brittany's hydrating and okay.</p><p>It's been thirty minutes since the last check, so he decides another is due.</p><p>He rolls over the lounge rug for the umpteenth time, only to find no Brittany.</p><p>But the music's still blaring.</p><p>"Britt?" he calls out.</p><p>Frowning, he wheels himself to the stereo system, turns the volume all the way down. Only then do the furious pants coming from over by the window become audible.</p><p>"Oh my God!"</p><p>Artie momentarily flails, fumbles to roll himself over to the blonde's sweaty heaped body.</p><p>Once leaning over her, he calms, because despite the quick shallow pants puffing from her frame, Brittany looks to be at peace, a delirious closed-eyed smile on her face.</p><p>"Britt?" he asks softly.</p><p>"Yeah?" she pants.</p><p>"Are you okay? You've been dancing for just under four hours straight."</p><p>"Artie?"</p><p>"Yes Brittany?"</p><p>"The voices are gone, but... I think I'm gonna need to borrow your chair for a few days."</p><hr/><p>"Alright, Santana, now be smart about this," she says, stepping out of the shower and towelling off. "You get to watch Israel Adesanya obliterate the overgrown juice pig that is Paulo Costa <em>live</em> —hell, you might even get to feel some blood spray your face. It's gonna be epic." She shrugs tentatively, squirts some lotion to her palms and rubs it into her arms. "So what if everyone's gonna think you're some softball playing, flannel-lingerie-wearing, dick dodger, and that your favorite food is pussy? You <em>have</em> to see this fight, and you <em>have</em> to make a better impression on Brittany after whatever the fuck that was yesterday."</p><p>She leaves a trail of damp footsteps from the bathroom to her bedroom, gets dressed, and sits on the corner of the bed.</p><p>Her phone catches her eye, challenging her.</p><p>She wants to call Mercedes and talk to her about Brittany. About everything. About the UFC date — maybe even get some advice on what to do.</p><p>Santana groans, flopping back on the mattress and staring up at the ceiling.</p><p>"Bitch, just feel the fear and do it anyway. What's the worst Mercedes can do? Your parents were murdered; it's not like there's heartbreak heavier than that."</p><p>Under a surge of sudden bravery, or stupidity, she snatches her phone and calls Mercedes.</p><p>Rings twice before an upbeat, "what's crackin', mamacita?" funnels into her ear.</p><p>Words that weren't there to begin with jam in Santana's throat.</p><p>She's frozen.</p><p>"Hello? Santana, you there?"</p><p>"Um, sure. I-I'm all the way... here," she barely manages to say.</p><p>"Girl, you okay?"</p><p>Santana expels a steadying breath, puts on a smile in the hope that it'll extend to her voice. "I'm cool, M. I just wanted to let you know that, um..."</p><p>"What?" Mercedes coaxes.</p><p>"I'm uh..."</p><p><em>Attracted to another broad</em>.</p><p>"Bitch, you're gonna have to start making some sense real soon, 'cause my lunch break just ended, and I don't want Sam going off on me with those 5D lips of his."</p><p>Santana releases an empty chuckle. "I'm just phoning to say I'm not gonna be able to come to the movies Saturday. I got tickets to see UFC 253, so yeah... I'm blowing you off to go see that instead."</p><p>"Okay, well do your thing — and don't forget to get me the number of one of those hot ass fighters."</p><p>"I will."</p><p>"Preferably one who's making Conor McGregor type money, but without the cheating and rape allegations."</p><p>"I'll try my best." Santana rubs the back of her neck, says, "um, well I'll let you get back to work before Jaws fires you."</p><p>"Okay. You sure you're okay Santana?"</p><p>"The surest."</p><p>"Alright. Well I'll catch you later, mama."</p><p>"Bye M."</p><hr/><p>She sinks her teeth into the last of her BGT sandwich and tosses the remaining ends to the plate, crumbs fluttering to the café table.</p><p>Her jaw works into the bite as her eyes swim the magazine article — something about trans men giving birth.</p><p>She rolls her eyes, swiftly turns the page.</p><p>
  <em>Because nobody asked for a God damn LGBT sandwich!</em>
</p><p>She's oblivious to the pair of eyes on her, continues to drink her coffee and flick through the shitty magazine.</p><p>At least until two queuing customers start bickering, and she looks up to her left.</p><p>That's when she sees her.</p><p>"Hey," Brittany mouths at being caught, a demure little smile playing on her lips.</p><p>Santana drops the magazine like it's too hot, fights the urge to frantically brush the crumbs from her shirt and wipe her mouth at the corners. "H-How long have you been standing there?"</p><p>A syrupy smile elongates Brittany's lips. "Long enough to get the warm and fuzzies?" she says, walking her fingers along her stomach before tapping to finalize her point. "You're a cute eater. I really like how your jaw churns when you chew."</p><p>Before Santana can process that <em>she</em> somehow gives the blonde the warm and fuzzies, Brittany motions to the vacant seat.</p><p>"Can I sit? It's so cool that I'd bump into you here, 'cause I was totally gonna skip the chocolate muffin so I could get a head start painting my mailbox. But when chocolate muffins call, you pick-up — and now I get to see you."</p><p>Santana's gaze darts around the café. It's relatively busy, customers scattered throughout the establishment. But at least she's seated towards the back, mostly tucked away from view.</p><p>A group of oddball teens shuffle out of the toilets then, and as they walk by Santana looks to the table, not wanting to chance seeing it on one of their faces. The realization that there's something more than friendship going on between her and Brittany.</p><p>"Are you okay, Santana?"</p><p>"I'm good."</p><p>Understanding suddenly colors Brittany's stare. "Hey," she says softly, "everyone's totally just gonna think we're besties. And we <em>so</em> are at this point. Like, how many people can say they have the history we have?"</p><p>Santana shakes her head. "It's not a good history. In fact it's bad. Really bad. One of the worst histories I have with anybody. I met you in your underwear, about to screw my boyfriend, and it's been chaos ever since."</p><p>"Well our history brought us here, so how bad can it be?" Brittany shrugs.</p><p>She sorta has point, Santana supposes. "Fine. Sit. But easy on the smiles, volume, and compliments."</p><p>Brittany folds her lips in on each other, hums like she's conflicted.</p><p>"What?" Santana asks.</p><p>"Nothing," Brittany squeaks, overly innocent.</p><p>"You look constipated. No one looks constipated for nothing."</p><p>"Again with the thinking about my butt. On the low though, she's super flattered." Brittany winks.</p><p>"Why isn't your butt <em>sitting</em>? You just asked if you could sit. I told you yes, and now you're constipated while <em>not</em> sitting. Make it make sense."</p><p>Brittany's innocent countenance crumbles, and she sighs, dropping down into the seat. "Okay, so I don't want it to be this thing I feel guilty or weird about thinking about whenever I'm with you, so I think you should know I had a... <em>dream</em> two nights ago."</p><p>Right away Santana knows what kind.</p><p>She's had a few herself.</p><p>Only, she doubts hers were as pure as Brittany's.</p><p>
  <em>Guess twenty-five years of denial and repression does that.</em>
</p><p>"Nothing extreme happened," Brittany's quick to reassure her. "And it was consensual, and stuff. I didn't do it on purpose — are you mad?"</p><p>Santana's sort of in awe.</p><p>That Brittany feels guilty about having a sex dream about her — and couldn't make it five minutes before fessing up — is... sweet and honorable.</p><p>She shrugs a shoulder, plays it cool. "It's not like it was real. In which case, why would I be mad?"</p><p><em>Hell, that dream might be all you ever get, so cherish it</em>.</p><p>Brittany breaks into a relieved smile, palms her chest to steady her heartbeat. "Honesty is the best policy," she says, pleased with Santana's reaction. "Want a chocolate muffin?"</p><p>"Why are you always tryna feed me a muffin?"</p><p>"Because Mr Timely's chocolate muffins are awesome, and Santana Lopez deserves awesome," Brittany answers, like it should be obvious. "Come on, keep up."</p><p>The light sass is so unexpected, Santana laughs. Says, "you were just seconds from grovelling 'cause you had a sex dream, okay? Don't develop a slick tongue now."</p><p>"Aren't all tongues slick?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>"Doesn't slick mean wet? And all tongues are wet right?"</p><p>"That's not how I meant it. I meant slick like a smartass."</p><p>"All tongues matter," Brittany cheers.</p><p>"I don't want a muffin. Chocolate or otherwise."</p><p>Brittany's lips threaten a pout. "You're the only person in the world I wanna eat a muffin with right now. It's not gonna work any other way. And if you've never had a Mr Timely's chocolate muffin before, you <em>have</em> to try one. They're like, so so good."</p><p>"How come you're not afraid of me?"</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"How come <em>you're</em> not afraid of <em>me</em>?"</p><p>Brittany stares at Santana for a few seconds.</p><p>"Well? Let's hear it."</p><p>"Does it bother you that I'm not, Santana?"</p><p>"I thought I was the one asking the questions here?"</p><p>"I'm not afraid of you because," Brittany drawls, almost childlike, "I'm mostly just impressed you're a thing? I don't know; you're like this beautiful, passionate, strong woman. What's to be afraid of?"</p><p>"When I lose my temper, I'm capable of anything. That's what's to be afraid of."</p><p>Santana might even be a little afraid of that herself.</p><p>"I wouldn't be here if I was afraid. I kinda feel like you're mostly mush inside, but just with a protective shell. Like a snail."</p><p>Santana scoffs. "You're in for a rude awakening."</p><p>"Am I?" Brittany challenges on a smirk.</p><p>It's a little bit flirtatious, the smirk. Daring, but not quite.</p><p>Santana looks around, makes sure nobody's watching them.</p><p>"Stop that."</p><p>"Stop what?"</p><p>"Whatever it is you're doing with your face."</p><p>"I'm afraid this is just how my face is set up."</p><p>"How are you afraid of that, but not of me?"</p><p>Brittany giggles.</p><p>"This hand," Santana says, holding up the right and flexing its fingers, "is the same hand I almost pulled the trigger with. How are you just okay with that? — That you think the way I chew is cute? I mean, are you that devout a dyke that all you can think about is smashing?"</p><p>There's that awful word again.</p><p>Dyke.</p><p>It bites frown lines into Brittany's forehead.</p><p>"Aww, you getting fired up, Britt-Britt? Leap, little froggy," Santana goads. "After all that progress you thought we made, you're probably real angry right now. You wanna hit me?" She juts her chin out, offering it up. "I know you have that dancer strength. Come on, Britt-Britt. You wanna be around me, you gotta prove you can handle yourself."</p><p>"Is that what you want, Santana? For me to be mean to you because you feel bad about pulling Beretta on me?"</p><p>Santana doesn't know what she wants at this point.</p><p>"You're totally trying to push me away because you feel guilty, and you don't wanna deal with this. But I'm not gonna let you, 'cause I know you like me the way I like you."</p><p>Santana looks off, neither denying nor confirming.</p><p>"I just wanna get to know you," Brittany says, and it's small and quiet.</p><p>Santana runs her fingers through her hair, sighing heavily. "I don't have the patience for any of this, Brittany. I seriously don't."</p><p>"Is this your way of gently letting me down?"</p><p>"No. This is me telling you I suck at this. All of it. There's your disclaimer. Continue at your own risk."</p><p>"Okay, well I choose you. I choose to continue."</p><p>"You have the patience of a saint. I woulda had me brutally murdered months ago."</p><p>"No murder — and of course you're gonna suck. Any time anybody's a beginner at anything, it's major suckage. I understand, and there's no judgment. You should probably be less hard on yourself."</p><p>"You looked nice when you came to my place," Santana suddenly blurts.</p><p>She trains her stare on the magazine, unable to look Brittany in the eye. But somehow, she feels the blonde's grin.</p><p>She misses the deep blush though.</p><p>"I don't know what to say," Brittany murmurs, tapping the table; shy. "Thanks."</p><p>"You mean this whole time, all I had to do to get you to stop talking was say something nice?"</p><p>Brittany chuckles but remains quiet, still captured by the compliment.</p><p>Santana draws in a breath, looks Brittany in her twinkling blue eyes. "So UFC 253," she says.</p><p>"I think I've met Israel Adesanya before."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"The tall African dude in the main event fight. The champ."</p><p>"I know who he is."</p><p>"He was a dancer before he was a fighter, right? I think I danced with his group once. He's cool as hell, and we ate together — talked about Death Note, the anime. We showed each other moves. So I'm rooting for him to win this weekend."</p><p>Now that Santana thinks about it, she's sure she saw an Israel Adesanya interview where he talked about his previous street dance career. And he performed a dance during his entrance at UFC 243.</p><p><em>And</em> he mimed writing Robert Whittaker's name on a death note minutes before knocking him out.</p><p>"Holy shit, I think you're right."</p><p>"Yeah, if he wins I'm totally storming the cage to give him a hug. Like, nobody's gonna stop me."</p><p>"Shit, I'm coming with you."</p><p>Brittany grins a sweet grin. "So you're coming? To see the fights with me?"</p><p>Santana hesitates.</p><p>What she fears, she's doing right now.</p><p>She's in public with Brittany, and although it's uncomfortable and unfamiliar, she's handling it better than she thought she would.</p><p>
  <em>You even managed to have a conversation this time instead of being a retard.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Fuck it.</em>
</p><p>She shrugs. "I'm there."</p><p>Brittany fist pumps. "Score! I'll text you the details — or I <em>would</em> if I had your number. This is the part where I bat my eyelashes at you until you give me your cell number."</p><p>"Don't bat your eyelashes. Just gimme your phone."</p><p>Brittany squeaks, excited. She rummages through the purse that's slung across her torso, pulls her phone out, and slides it across the table.</p><p>Santana grabs it, unlocks it, and taps in her number, saving it under <em>Satan</em> as she says, "this doesn't mean we're gonna be up 'til retard o'clock talking on the phone. Or texting."</p><p>She slides the phone back to Brittany, who merrily scoops it up.</p><p>"Oh, we'll see about that Santana."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There's supposed to be emojis in this chapter, but who knows whether they'll format correctly. Guess we'll see.</p><p>I was gonna post this chapter and the next as one once all was written, but I don't fancy the lengthy editing/proofreading job, so here's this chapter. Next one will directly follow on from this.</p><p>Disclaimer: mentions of pedophilia.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Santana's settling in bed when the text buzzes in.</p><p>She tosses the sheets back, reaches over and grabs her phone from the bedside cabinet.</p><p><strong>(332) 248-9527</strong>: <em>I dunno how I got your number, Satan, but I'm glad I have it cuz you and I have some things to discuss, bucko!</em></p><p>
  <em>Like why'd you betray God? Did you do that? Cuz it seems like hearsay, but if everyone says you're the bad guy it's probably true. If you have a reasonable explanation tho, I'll listen.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Now onto my list of demands!</em>
</p><p><em>1. Stop funding and training pedophiles! My niece got a message from one on social media, and I know you're behind it </em>😠</p><p><em>2. Take the batteries out of Mark Zuckerberg! He's caked up in the back tho </em>🍑</p><p>
  <em>3. Stop telling religious ppl God hates gay ppl!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>4. Cannibalism needs to stop!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>5. Stop possessing the rubber duck in my bathroom. I see how you scratched her eyes out so you can watch Artie and I poop.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>6. You're behind all crimes, including fashion ones. Quit that too!</em>
</p><p><em>7. You and God probably don't speak much these days, but if you still have her number, tell her to make sure everyone I know is healthy and at peace! And to make Artie's legs work again cuz I know it bums him out sometimes! God should also be a better mediator when my parents fight, cuz I love them but I can't keep going there at 3am for family court. Lastly, tell God to sprinkle happy health dust on everyone who's suffering, cuz everyone was created by her and she should take better care of her things! </em>❤️</p><p><em>8. All the other evil stuff you do that I'm forgetting must stop! </em>😡</p><p>
  <em>Okay I'm going now. If my demands aren't met, I'm going to the cops. Your move, butt plug.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sincerely, Brittany... Bitch.</em>
</p><p>Santana reads it through twice, bites her lip to try to stifle her broad laugh.</p><p>Fails miserably.</p><p>"What a freakin' idiot," she mutters, face awash with the screen light.</p><p>When she saved her number under <em>Satan</em>, it was precautionary. She doesn't know who Brittany knows, or who has access to her phone, and with the six degrees of separation theory, it was best to be cautious.</p><p>After all, she's not ready for anyone she knows to know about their thing.</p><p>She just never imagined it would lead to <em>this</em>.</p><p>She hits the reply icon, curiosity compelling her to type:</p><p><em>I'm not meeting any of your demands. Now what</em>?</p><p>Hits send.</p><p>The response is almost instant.</p><p><strong>(332) 248-9527</strong>:<em> I knew you'd be this way, hell boy</em>.</p><p>Then another.</p><p><strong>(332) 248-9527</strong>: <em>I'm going to the cops. They'll track your location through this number. It's about time authorities did something about you</em>!</p><p>That Brittany's this done with Satan's bullshit, and isn't holding back, is hilarious.</p><p>It's also kind of... appealing, Santana realizes with a small frown.</p><p>Before she can scold the thought, the phone starts vibrating, screen suddenly flashing with the number the messages came from.</p><p>Brittany's number.</p><p>Santana blinks at it, wonders how long they'll be talking if she picks up. It's already eleven-thirty.</p><p>The vibrating stops as abruptly as it began, screen flashing <em>missed call</em>.</p><p>Another text comes through.</p><p><strong>(332) 248-9527</strong>: <em>Wise not to answer cuz you know I ask the hard questions. But very cowardly</em>. <em>Have a bad night's sleep</em>, <em>and I usually want ppl to sleep well</em> <em>cuz</em> <em>it's important for health and stuff</em>.</p><p>Another.</p><p><strong>(332) 248-9527</strong>: <em>I'm gonna call again. Pick up this time</em>! <em>I'm not gonna yell at you</em>. <em>Maybe.</em></p><p>Santana ponders what it means that, despite the insanity of these texts, the thought of an authoritarian Brittany heats up her inner thighs.</p><p><em>Probably that strap-on dream</em>. <em>She fucked you silly, had your eyes rolling and everything</em>.</p><p>She sends the awakening space between her legs a mild glare, demands, "okay, settle the fuck down! You're <em>way</em> too excitable and I'm over it."</p><p>As promised, the phone rings again, Brittany's number flashing on the screen.</p><p>This time Santana picks up.</p><p>"Am I through to the devil?" Brittany asks, sounding tired and a little grumpy.</p><p>"Depends who you ask."</p><p>"You're mimicking Santana's voice. Smart 'cause you know I like her so so much. But I'm still gonna yell at you."</p><p>"This <em><strong>is</strong></em> Santana. And I don't appreciate how willing you are to yell at someone you think sounds like me."</p><p>There's some minor turbulence on the line, the sound of feet shuffling, and a door softly clicking shut.</p><p>"Prove it," then sounds in Santana's ear.</p><p>"Prove what?"</p><p>"That you're Santana."</p><p>"What, you need to see ID?"</p><p>"Okay."</p><p>"I'm not showing you ID."</p><p>"Because you're the devil," Brittany doubles down. "And if you spend eternity burning in hell, you'll still never be as hot as Santana. I said what I said."</p><p>"I <em>am</em> Santana. Satan's just a nickname that's more obscure than my actual name, but close enough that I thought you'd know it was me."</p><p>"I don't know what to believe," Brittany says with a pronounced sigh.</p><p>"Why are you blowing out depressed gusts of breath?"</p><p>"I thought I was getting ready to drag Satan. So I'm kinda disappointed. Oh, and I'm tired."</p><p>"Who gets ready to drag Satan on five-percent battery?"</p><p>"Wait, lemme check – yeah, my battery's at sixty-two-percent."</p><p>"I'm talking about your energy levels, not your phone."</p><p>"I could totally drag Satan in my sleep," Brittany yawns.</p><p>Somehow Santana believes her.</p><p>"Go to sleep. You sound ready to pass out."</p><p>"But I wanna talk to you for a bit. I like your voice. It's like silk dipped in honey."</p><p>Santana glances the digital clock.</p><p><em>23:56</em>.</p><p>Decides ten more minutes won't break her back.</p><p>If Brittany even lasts that long.</p><p>"Ten minutes, then I'm hanging up. Possibly without warning."</p><p>"How old are you, Santana?"</p><p>"Shit, how old are <em>you</em>?"</p><p>Brittany's relaxed chuckle is cute coming through the phone.</p><p>"How old do you think I am, Santana?"</p><p>"Why do you keep saying my name?"</p><p>"One: I like it. A lot. Two: if you're really Satan, I figure you'll eventually get tired of being called something else and reveal yourself. Smart right?"</p><p>"Harvard graduate levels of smart."</p><p>"Thanks. So, how old do you think I am Santana?"</p><p>"I don't know. A hundred. Maybe seventy-five."</p><p>"I did a hundred burpees today, so I think that's what you're picking up on. I'm twenty-seven. How old are you?"</p><p>"I can't believe you're my elder," Santana half grumbles.</p><p>Brittany laughs. "I'm your elder, which means you have to listen to me when I tell you to do stuff. No backchat."</p><p>"No. <em>Always</em> backchat. Regardless of age. And <em>especially</em> backchat when it comes to you."</p><p>"Go clean up your room! And I don't want any backchat!" Brittany mock shouts before giggling. "I always wanted to say that."</p><p>"Well congrats."</p><p>"Thanks."</p><p>"Twenty-five," Santana reveals. "I'm, uh, twenty-five."</p><p>"Super cool age, oh young one. I remember being twenty-five."</p><p>"You should, it was just two years ago."</p><p>"I don't remember what I had for breakfast this morning, or where I was an hour ago, so not really."</p><p><em>Since we're asking questions</em>...</p><p>"What's family court at three in the morning?"</p><p>"Oh, it's just when my mom and dad fight, and they call me over to hear both sides. Then I have to decide on a ruling. They bought me a gavel. I hear and see stuff no daughter should."</p><p>"Like what?" Santana asks, staring off into the dark of her room wistfully, because regardless of how ridiculous Brittany and her family are, she'd put on a judge's wig and mediate her parents' bullshit over having no parents every time.</p><p>"Like," Brittany drawls. "Like, one time they were fighting about my dad's late night viewing habits."</p><p>Santana's nose pleats as she scrunches it. "Ew, gross."</p><p>"Totally. But then when I looked at the watch history, it came out my mom ordered movies too."</p><p>"What was the ruling?"</p><p>"It kinda just turned into this huge fight, and it came out my dad's not my bio dad."</p><p>Santana's eyebrows shoot up, only to furrow in frown. "Hold up, what?"</p><p>"I probably shoulda known, since he's Korean and all, and I'm white."</p><p>Korean.</p><p>Several posts and pictures from Brittany's Facebook profile populate Santana's mind.</p><p><em>The older Korean dude she's always hugging tightly is her dad</em>. <em>Go figure</em>.</p><p>"You should probably say no next time they try to rope you into their drama," she suggests. "Or you're gonna end up on some Jerry Springer type talk show, or worse. Tell 'em to get a damn marriage coach. Families need boundaries."</p><p>"I don't want them fighting, so I just show up with my gavel. But you're probably right."</p><p>"I'm always right. Let's just establish that now so there's no confusion moving forward."</p><p>"I'm always right too, which means we should always agree. Problem solved."</p><p>Brittany yawns, this time longer and louder.</p><p>Santana looks at the digital clock.</p><p><em>00:17</em>.</p><p>"Ten minutes are up. Sleep time," she says.</p><p>"I had fun talking, Santana, and I can't wait to see you Saturday."</p><p>Santana manages a quiet, "ditto. Night."</p><p>"Sleep well – and I'll try not to have any more... <em>dreams</em>, but it's gonna be tough now since you're all I'm gonna think about falling asleep. Sorry just in case."</p><p>"Yeah well, perverts are gonna pervert."</p><p>Brittany groans, and on a slow smirk, Santana imagines the blonde burying her blushing face in a pillow.</p><p>"I'm not a pervert," Brittany whines. "I pinky promise."</p><p>"See? Only reason you wanna pinky promise is 'cause it involves fingers. I see how you move," Santana teases.</p><p>Which begets another embarrassed groan.</p><p>Well, supposedly.</p><p>Sounded kind of sexual if you ask Santana.</p><p>She clears her throat. "Stop, um, moaning like that."</p><p>"Really Santana?" Brittany chuckles. "<em>Now</em> who's the pervert?"</p><p>"Yeah well, guess we're all a little perverted. Especially when no one's looking."</p><p>"I would love to hear what you do when no one's looking, Santana, but you already think I'm a pervert. So we'll skip that," Brittany husks. "Night, and sweet dreams."</p><p><em>Oh my God. Did she </em> <em> <strong>really</strong> </em> <em> just say that?</em></p><p><em> <strong>Like</strong></em> <em> that?</em></p><p>
  <em>Shit, act like you got good sense and say something before she clocks how deep she fucked you up!</em>
</p><p><em> <strong>Quick</strong></em> <em>!</em></p><p>"Uh, s-sweet dreams."</p><p>Despite all the talk of sweet dreams, both their dreams turn out wet.</p><hr/><p>It's Saturday.</p><p>Fight day for the fighters booked on the UFC 253 card.</p><p>Date day for Santana, who might as well be fighting Valentina Shevchenko for the UFC flyweight belt tonight, given her oscillating anxiety levels.</p><p>She's in the closet mirror, arms elevated, one hand clasping a hair strand in place, the other manoeuvring her curling iron through it.</p><p>The lock falls as she carefully slides the curling iron out; sleek, glossy, and bouncy. Big zigzag curls, just how she likes them.</p><p>"I'd fuck you," she tells her pretty reflection, admiring her side parting, sensual make-up, and flawless skin. "Not that you're ready for, for sex or anything. But after Brittany showed up here looking like orgasms-on-wheels, she needs to know <em>two</em> can play the deliriously hot game."</p><p>She curls those last few strands and sprays the entirety of her locks, preening a few curls around the parting to better frame her face.</p><p>Glances the time on her phone display.</p><p><em>17:46</em>.</p><p>Her heart beat quickens.</p><p>The early preliminary card starts at seven, which means she only has limited time to get her bullshit nerves in check.</p><p>She looks every bit <em>that</em> bitch, with her urban zigzag curls, maroon crop top sweater, black harem jogger pants, and hi-top sneakers.</p><p>She just wishes she felt it.</p><p>"Okay, what was the deal?" she asks her trembling hands, but truly addressing her whole body. "If you <em>behave</em>, you might get what?" She nods slowly, announcing, "some vibrator action tonight."</p><p><em>Lord knows I'm probably gonna need it after being around Brittany</em> <em>for five or more hours</em>.</p><p>She rolls her eyes, over the constant sexual thoughts.</p><p>She's never been this turned on in her life, over anyone. Not even the girls she reluctantly crushed on in high school.</p><p>There are no erratic teen hormones to blame this on either. Yet this is constant and unyielding, infiltrating almost every part of her day.</p><p>Sun-up to sundown.</p><p>It's a little bit scary.</p><p><em>Well, a lot actually</em>.</p><p>If she'd had the guts, she thinks she would've fucked Brittany sane by now.</p><p>But she's <em>not</em> ready, which is only inflaming the growing need.</p><p>So here she is.</p><p>Stuck swatting her own twat.</p><p>She groans. "Who the fuck twat-swats <em>themselves</em>, retard?"</p><hr/><p>"Mom! Dad! Stop!" Brittany yells over the ruckus of her parents' bickering.</p><p>They quiet at once, looking to their exasperated daughter.</p><p>"I don't have time for family court right now; I have to be somewhere," she tells them.</p><p>"Was there really any need to yell, Brittany?" her mother, Whitney, whispers, as if to demonstrate the acceptable volume range.</p><p>"Your mother's right, honey bun," Pierce cosigns, tone just as soft treading as his wife's. "We didn't raise a yeller."</p><p>"You were both just yelling, and kid Brittany remembers tons of happy times but also tons of yelling."</p><p>Both Pierce and Whitney share a stumped look.</p><p>"You guys are my parents, and I love you to Uranus and back, but it's time I turned in my gavel." Brittany pulls the varnished wooden mallet from her jacket pocket, places it on the kitchen isle counter, adding, "which sorta sucks 'cause it's a pretty cool gavel, and I really liked banging it. "</p><p>She picks it back up, bangs it a couple more times, then drops it. "There. Now it's out of my system, I think."</p><p>"Now, honey, don't be hasty," her mother says softly. "You do a fantastic job resolving our issues. Well, except for the time your father refused to kill that spider, and you ruled in his favor."</p><p>"They're living beings just like you and I, Whitney," Pierce argues. "Much more afraid of us than we are them."</p><p>"Tell that to the woman who had to have <em>her ear removed</em> because spiders moved in and spun a nest!"</p><p>"The chances of that happening are slim to none. That woman was unlucky." He shrugs. "Besides, how do we even know that story was true?"</p><p>Whitney pins Pierce with an irritated squint, snarls, "I saw it on the news."</p><p>"Fake news! The mainstream media lies!"</p><p>"Ugh," she huffs, throwing her arms up hopelessly. "I'm sick of your conspiracy theories, Pierce!"</p><p>"I am <em>not</em> a conspiracy theorist! I'm a conspiracy <em>realist</em>! You're just naive!"</p><p>"You're all nut jobs," Whitney growls.</p><p>"Guys!" Brittany shouts, throwing the wall clock a panicked glance. "Please stop the verbal violence. And I'm sorry mom, but the government and media lie all the time."</p><p>"Ha! See?" Pierce says, looking to his wife, smug.</p><p>"But that doesn't mean the ear story was a lie," Brittany quickly adds.</p><p>"So then <em>why</em> would you rule in your father's favor for the spidergate case? Hmm? You want parents who can't hear you because of spider eggs?"</p><p>Brittany shakes her head, saddened by the thought.</p><p>"Exactly. Your father supports Trump, <em>knowing</em> his daughter likes other people's daughters. I mean, come <em>on</em>!" Whitney stresses, imploring her daughter to be as disturbed as she is.</p><p>Brittany takes her fingers to her temple, eyes closed as she gently massages the area. "I have a date with the most huggable person in the universe," she says, opening her eyes. "I can't do this with you guys right now."</p><p>"Oooh, you have a date?" Pierce zeroes in, face coming alive with the thought of his daughter being romanced.</p><p>"Yeah, and I really don't wanna be late."</p><p>"Are you nervous?"</p><p>Brittany prods her stomach as if to check. Smiles as she reports, "not really. I am super excited though."</p><p>"You look pretty, honey bun. I love those earrings."</p><p>"Thanks dad."</p><p>Whitney surveys her daughter's outfit, from black and white Converses, to black skinny jeans; to the red pin-up style bandana, tied in a chic knot before her intricate bun.</p><p>"I like this," she says, tugging at Brittany's leather jacket. "And I just <em>love</em> the hair. And what's that underneath?" She peels the jacket back at an opening, sees the red plaid button down that stops just past Brittany's hips. "You look nice – and you smell good too. What is that?"</p><p>"Thanks mom, but I'm not telling you my perfume. We can't keep smelling the same."</p><p>Whitney puts her hand on her hip. "And what's wrong with smelling like the woman who almost <em>died</em> pushing you out?"</p><p>"Last time you bought the same perfume as me, dad grabbed me from behind. Sometimes I think about seeing a psychiatrist."</p><p>Pierce has the grace to look to the floor, embarrassed.</p><p>"I forgot about that," Whitney mutters. "But it's not like he could see. He was still blindfolded from swinging at that pinata."</p><p>"I was, honey bun. But I'm so sorry about..." Pierce rubs his palms together awkwardly.</p><p>"The boob grab?" Brittany supplies.</p><p>"Yes! Uh, yes. Uh. That."</p><p>"My date said families need boundaries, and I totally think we should start with wearing our own perfumes."</p><p>"Fine," Whitney concedes begrudgingly. "Are they a Joe or a Joanna, this date?"</p><p>"A Santana," Brittany murmurs with a soft smile. "And she's super brave, and she's Jimson's Triple Flame Puffs hot."</p><p>"Aww, look at my little honey bun. All smitten."</p><p>"Smitten kitten," Brittany sings shyly.</p><p>"Make sure you're polite, and kind, and that you treat her like a lady," Pierce reminds her. "And don't forget napkins, because you absorbed your messy eating tendencies from me while in the womb."</p><p>"I will – I mean won't. I mean both."</p><p>"And if anything should... <em>happen</em>, be sure to get clear verbal consent."</p><p>"We're taking it super slow, and we're going to watch UFC fights, so no sexy times."</p><p>"You should bring Santana for dinner," Whitney suddenly suggests. "I've been dying to get an outside opinion on my beef jalfrezi."</p><p>"No mom," Brittany puts her foot down. "You already used Robin as a food test dummy, and then I had to beg her not to break up with me."</p><p>Whitney shrugs, not a bit of shame. "She turned out to be a lying cheating witch anyway. I'm glad those Scotch bonnets lit the fire of hell in her throat."</p><p>"Mom," Brittany groans, gently scolding.</p><p>"I agree with your mother, sweetheart. Robin deserved the fire of hell in her throat, and more."</p><p>She kinda did, Brittany reasons against her urge to defend.</p><p>"Powerful Pierce group hug before I go?" she proposes, opening her arms wide.</p><p>Both Whitney and Pierce grin, shuffling into the spirited three-way embrace.</p><hr/><p>There's a stuffed unicorn in the store display window.</p><p>"Of course there is," Santana says under her breath, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to glare at it.</p><p>She doesn't appreciate the challenge.</p><p>The challenge of should she or shouldn't she?</p><p><em>Can</em> she?</p><p>And from a stuffed unicorn no less.</p><p>This isn't her. Window shopping for stuffed mythical creatures with blonde bombshell recipients in mind isn't her.</p><p>"Who even are you right now?"</p><p>"Hey, you okay there hot stuff?" a passing man asks, but he's slowing, like he wants to stop and chance a few pick-up lines.</p><p>Santana turns her glare on him, bites, "keep walking afores I ends your existence. How 'bout that?"</p><p>"Is that seriously how you're gonna talk to me, hot stuff?"</p><p>"Fuck outta my face or I'll stab you," Santana says, turning her gaze back to the stuffed unicorn.</p><p>If the guy sticks around, she doesn't notice. Just stands there, going back and forth on the pros and cons of buying the stupid little stuffed toy for Brittany.</p><p><em>And it </em><em><strong>is</strong></em><em> stupid</em>.</p><p>"You gonna let this woman break you, or are you gonna find some God damn balls?" Santana scolds herself. "It's just a stuffed toy. Buy it, give it to her, watch her get all flustered; Grand Theft Auto side mission complete. Simple."</p><p>Simple as it may be, she tells herself:<em> some other time...</em></p><p>A short while later she's walking up on the agreed upon meeting spot. Some barbershop Santana didn't even know existed.</p><p>She spots Brittany leaning against the brickwork even from a distance, appreciates her urban-chic badass look.</p><p>An earbud slips from one of the blonde's ears then, and as she begins to fumble with it, she looks up. Spots Santana back.</p><p>"<em>Wow</em>," Brittany enunciates, rearing her neck back in awe; her blue eyes wide and sparkling, mouth ajar. "You look Gucci as all hell."</p><p>Santana entertains a small coy smile as she approaches, bats a few curls out of her vision. "Thanks. You too. Look nice, I mean. I, um, seriously like what you did with the bandanna."</p><p>Brittany turns her IPod off and tucks the earbuds into her jacket pocket, meeting Santana those final few steps.</p><p>She smiles at the beautiful woman stood before her, <em>still</em> floored by her perfection. "Like, do you even <em>want</em> me to watch the fights?" she asks, a little suspicious. "'Cause I don't know if I'm gonna be able to when you look like <em>that</em>. God, can I get a quick squeeze?"</p><p>"Uh..."</p><p>"Not like, of a boob or anything. I mean a hug. Since we met I've been dying to give you a hug. I put it on my mood board."</p><p>Santana looks the street over.</p><p>It's getting dark, and the sidewalk is pretty much devoid of humans, save one or two passers-by.</p><p>She gives a quick nod before she chickens out, and suddenly Brittany's stepping into her, scooping her up into the most enveloping warmth.</p><p>Safe, is how it feels.</p><p>"Watch the hair," she manages to say, gently pressing a palm to the blonde's back.</p><p>"Oh, I'm totally watching the hair, Santana. And the rest of you," Brittany quips, getting a good squeeze in, but gentle with it. "You smell awesome too. Mmm," she hums appreciatively, before pulling back.</p><p>"I was, um, just gonna say the same about you. What perfume is that? Smells amazing."</p><p><em>Great. Now I gotta deal with the scent of heaven hypnotizing me all night</em>.</p><p>"I don't share secrets like that, Santana. But nice try." Brittany winks.</p><p>"I'm sure I'll find some way to get it out of you. Stay on your toes."</p><p>"I will. I'm a dancer."</p><p>"Dancers gotta take breaks too, smartass. So keep alert. Not that it's gonna matter; I'll get it out of you eventually."</p><p>"I love the self-certainty. You know, you should totally be a confidence coach."</p><p>"I literally have no idea whether you're being a smartass, or whether you're serious," Santana tells her.</p><p>"Me neither. Welcome to the club," Brittany chirps. "Now let us go catch this train."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Tell me what you thought :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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